Within seconds, the erotic fire I feel is so demanding, if I squirm on the bedrail, I’m sure I’ll orgasm. Wisely, I remain frozen in place, becoming compliant. I’m too exhausted to deal with any more.
Billy is in my field of vision. I can see his eyes, molten and lusty but still filled with anger. He comes to me, one leg on the bed, leaning over my body, jerking my hair back in his fist so we can see each other eye to eye.
“You are my wife,” he says pointing a finger from his free hand at my nose, “you are my property, and my servant. You will do as you’re told without thinking. Is that understood?”
I nod my head. That’s all the response I can give him, and even that is difficult the way he binds my head with my hair.
“You are far beyond these kind of stunts, Kirsten. I suspect there’s something more to this matter you’re not telling me. You’ll be closeted for the next several hours. Perhaps that will make some impression on you. I don’t know why you’d be so reckless, but you can figure out what is ailing you and have a decent answer for me when I take out your gag.”
Billy leaves me for several minutes, returning to undo my hands and feet. Lifting me off the bed, he collars my throat, and takes me to the punishment closet where I am occasionally sentenced to serve time in solitary confinement. Usually, the minutes served in that captivity are something we enter into by mutual consent—the times I need the solitude and selflessness of that extreme constraint. The peace I feel overwhelms me here and I leave deeply satisfied. Only one other time have I been thrust into the closet as punishment. Then, Billy made it torture, applying several nasty clamps to my skin that meant more pain, pain I could not ease. The agony mounted the longer I was cloistered. But on that occasion he didn’t leave me long. Once he freed me, he released the pinchers, and I screamed feeling the blood rush back into those deprived slips of skin.
Clamps are not a part of this plan this time. When he said hours, I know he can’t be that cruel. Hours. I’ve never been locked up more than one hour. But hours now. This is extreme. It’s already ten o’clock. Will he go to bed, fall asleep and not get me until morning? I can’t imagine being confined that long.
At this point, I might welcome the solitude, except that my gagged lips are burning with the need to admit what I’ve held in for two days. I feel as though my life is on hold until I can make my confession.
I endure the imprisonment well. Lying in the empty closet, my head is tethered to the floor by a bolt attached to my collar. There is only six inches of chain to maneuver on. My hands are bound in front of me, my ankles the same. My ass is raw. The cuts from the cane did no real damage that I can tell, but they do make my bottom ache. I have little choice but to lie on my side and hope that sleep and the solitude will work their magic.
It takes some time for me to let go. When I finally do, the peace descends on me in a splendid wave. I drift, doze, let my mind wander and then refocus on the sounds Billy makes in the area around my closet. I wonder about life outside my prison and what it will feel like when I’m free again. I’m even able to think of Tony and his offer without going half-cocked. Nothing frightening clutches me. Nothing can in this empty solace.
When Billy finally comes to me, he seems more at peace himself, though he remains determinedly authoritarian, reminding me that I have just been punished.
“Tell me,” he begins the conversation while I’m still bound and gagged. Though he’s on the floor, pulling out the soppy scarf.
“It’s about Tony,” I say.
“Flynn?” He looks at me in disbelief. “The bastard screw you?”
“No.”
“What then?”
He’s undoing my restraints, massaging the life back into my ankles and wrists. After helping me to my feet, we sit on the bed and I’m ready to I answer. “He wants to interview me as a submissive woman for a documentary he’s making on sexual practices.” With all that out, I wonder why I found this so difficult to say. Why I put myself through the last several hours.
“That’s it?” Billy must feel the same way about my confession.
“That’s it.”
I almost think he’s going to laugh. “Well, I guess you’d better do it if you’re in this much distress over it. Maybe your fascination for the man isn’t over.”
“It’s more than that. It’s the documentary.”
“Arouses you?”
“I think so.”
“Then you’ll do whatever he asks,” he’s sure of himself now.
“Whatever?”
“On my orders, not his.”
This message makes me even more fearful, but all the wild in me is speaking, and I’ve never been more electrified by a command.
“Don’t disappoint me, Kirsten,” he says.
I can feel his hand in this, but I don’t say so. I’d rather not know.
We make love at two o’clock in the morning at the dead calm of night. Silently. The passion is pure and simple. I unleash the driving beast and Billy sends it shivering into ecstasy. With my satisfaction pouring into him, we are both released.
Chapter Twelve
Billy
I’m not telling Kirsten until it’s over who arranged Tony Flynn’s documentary on sexual practices. Flynn doesn’t know either—another thing he’ll hate me for, I’m sure. In fact, he never needs to know the truth. I do know that their responses will be more real if neither of them has a clue that I’m invisibly looming over the shoulders of the piece. I think it heightens her tremulous erotic fear to have her taken unaware. And to my surprise, Flynn does a vintage job leading her along, even though he has no idea what he’s doing.
Everything is filmed, though neither she nor Flynn know that I’m in the next room looking on.
Seeing her walk in the room as the video captures her nervous entrance, my cock’s already engaged in the pleasure. My bride’s demurely dressed. Perhaps she’s trying not to bait him given the provocative nature of the subject matter. She’s not going to have sex with the filmmaker—at least not unless I tell her.
Kirsten crosses the room to the staged sitting area where she’ll answer questions he’s prepared about life as a slave/wife. They sit in two comfortable chairs, while the cameraman fixes his lens on them. When the documentary is complete, her face will be hidden through filters to obscure recognition, but nothing will obscure the viewer’s eye when she unveils her body. She sits wearing a short back dress, no greatly distinguishing features on this one. It’s easy for her wear with a corset, and so that’s the dress she chose. Her submissiveness blooms with the reminder of her confinement. The corset is something I rarely require of her when she’s working, though it is an important goad when she speaks of what she feels in her soul.
“You are a sexual submissive?” the first question comes out easily and her reply follows.
“I am.”
“Would you call yourself a sexual slave?” Flynn asks.
“I would,” she answers without hesitation.
“And you are also married to the man you serve?”
“I am.”
“Tell me about that? What do all these words really mean in your real life—slave, servant, submissive. And why would you enter into this kind of arrangement?”
“The words mean what they say. Yes, I am my husband’s wife. I am also his property, his chattel. It means that I obey him, that I’m subject to his will. He makes most of the decisions that affect my life, and I am obedient to both the spirit and the letter of his rules, his guidelines and his decisions for me. I do it because it answers a need in me. It’s important for me to embrace that need directly; and honoring my desires brings satisfaction I could not otherwise have.”
“And you find obedience to your husband easy?”
She pauses, her hands looking fidgety in her lap. Her voice is soft, but distinct, and as she speaks she seems more surrendering with each word of truth.
“Most of the time, yes. But sometimes, no.”
“And still yo
u obey?”
“Most of the time.”
“And should you not?”
I like Tony’s style, the short clipped questions. They lead her on and are simple to answer. At least for the moment the fewer explanations she makes, the less chance she’ll have to balk. It doesn’t take much thinking.
“Should you not obey your husband?” he repeats what appears to be a tough one.
“I’m punished.”
“And how are you punished?” Flynn immediately asks.
“Sometimes I’m spanked, paddled, or caned on my ass. Other times I’m bound or put in a closet where I stay until my master releases me. There are other physical tortures…”
“We’ll get to those later, but I understand that as a masochist … you are a masochist?”
“Yes, I am.”
I almost think she’ll soon be calling him sir, she is drifting that deeply into herself.
“Then, as a masochist, the punishment might actually be erotically pleasing?”
“Sometimes. But often they’re not. My husband seems to know how to separate punishment from pleasure.”
“How does he do that?”
“It’s in degree, intensity, and mostly his attitude. If I’ve disappointed him, I know. He might be angry—hot, or simply cold and unfeeling. While both attitudes tend to arouse me, I can be certain that his treatment of me will be harsh. When I’m being punished, he usually does so swiftly, so I experience little physical joy from the act. And just knowing I’ve earned the chastisement makes me it hard to experience anything but the pain.”
“How did you discover these inclinations?”
“It’s been part of my fantasies since I was very young.”
“How young?”
“In some form since my earliest memories, when I was about five years old.”
“So, when you met this man, you laid your feelings on the table?”
“No, not exactly. He guessed.”
Flynn looks surprised by this answer.
“Guessed?”
“Intuition I suppose?”
“Then once you had that figured out you just started acting on these desires?” he pauses. “Or was there some preparation for this life?”
“I was trained.”
“You needed to be trained?”
“I needed to know what he expected, and he needed to know my desires and limits. My husband is in control, and though we’ve never talked about it, I assume he knows exactly how much I can handle. He rarely enacts anything that he doesn’t suspect will ultimately pleasure me.”
“Except punishment?”
“That’s not too often anymore.”
“When was the last time you were punished?” Flynn asks.
She smirks self-consciously. “Three days ago.”
“Just that recently?” he is amazed. Flynn skirts what he’s after but he’ll get what he wants. “Any lasting side-effects?”
“I was punished enough to be marked.”
“And the marks remain?”
“Some.”
“Would you be willing to have them filmed?”
“I’m on orders to do anything you ask?”
“Then let’s see your wounds,” Flynn says, sounding amazingly dominant as he gives the order.
Kirsten trembles noticeably as she rises from her chair. With the camera trained on her, she seems as humble as she’s been before other audiences I have arranged. As she slides the zipper down, Kirsten allows the two sides of her dress to fall downward, exposing her entire backside from her shoulders to her buttocks.
There are recognizable lines where the cane punished her three days ago, and the remnants of the sex we had the next night, where her back was a target of blows from my cat o’nine tails.”
I see Flynn shudder now as he and his cameraman view the damage to my wife’s lovely skin. Lines of red are etched there, almost appearing there as permanent features. They have no idea how raw they appeared when they were fresh.
“Thank you for being so open,” he says, and he helps her back into her dress.
When they sit again the intensity of the moment has increased considerably. Their eyes are not so focused on each other, and I can assume they would just as soon fuck as go on with the interview. My own crotch is steaming, my dick half erect.
“Would you be willing to be filmed in the middle of a sadomasochistic scene?” Flynn finally proceeds.
“I’ll have to ask my husband if he approves.”
“And would you ask him?”
“Yes. I’ve already promised that I would cooperate with you.”
He nods. A few more questions and the filming ends for the day.
***
Of course, I give Kirsten my permission to be the subject of a staged S&M event. She knows my answer before she asks the question, and the fear in her gold/green glowing eyes grows by leaps and bounds to have the die cast in Flynn’s favor.
I refuse to participate myself, deciding that it would be more interesting to have another dom take over. I can sit back on the sidelines and watch intrigued as I have before.
Making the arrangements personally with Flynn, he agrees to have me view it as it actually happens, this time deliberately invited into the studio to watch through a screened mirror. I want him to know I’m overseeing the scene, that I am ultimately in control. The actual event will take some time, just as most good scenarios do. But I’ll see it again when it is on film, only a small segment of Flynn’s documentary.
I know Darren Mitchell well, the infamous dom that’s been hired to work over my wife in a style I’m sure she’s unaccustomed to. He’s not unlike myself, quite loving in the beginning, but I’m sure the end will astound her.
Once he has her bound upright between two struts of a typical rack, he begins a meticulous session of S&M practice, forcing her to use master/slave language, which she instantly picks up. I rarely demand she call me master, except when I’m really pissed. Darren insists from the beginning. Any failure to comply is met with a swift reprisal, a hefty strap against her ass. She’ll like the sensation, but not the feeling she’s failing. If this is a permanent chronicle—with or without her name and face—she’ll want to behave like the perfect sub.
Kirsten does remarkably well. I’m not so sure of Tony Flynn, however. He stands to the side anxiously watching his first real sadomasochistic scene.
As for me, even in the next room, I can sense the heat burning through her thighs. Mitchell uses clamps and a thin poker he runs in lines along her skin before he snaps the implement with lightning fast speed on her flesh. She screeches, aroused. His methods leave her guessing. He mixes up his tools, using many more than I do for a single occasion, but I imagine this is part of the show, to give any voyeur a look at as many possibilities as he can. He moves along, at first, much too slowly to suit me, and even her. But Darren is an astute master, picking up speed when the sparks between them die and he needs a more engaged submissive to prove the point of physical pleasure.
For a time, he whacks her ass with the hefty strap until I see her burning buns turn scarlet. She begins to gasp erotically, and the man knows he has her moving fast. He turns to her cunt and whips that with a smaller strap. Kirsten writhes willfully and tries drawing away. He pulls her back and renders another sharp snap, after which he stands back to watch her jiggling response. Then, he whispers things in her ear I cannot hear. He strokes her gently and then moves on.
Darren’s thoroughness impresses me as I watch him systematically create two zippers of clothespins: one across her buttocks, the other undulating over her breasts. They’re each threaded with a small rope he’ll whip away at the proper moment, creating a long gnashing pain my wife will find difficult to withstand. Both zippers are bizarre to watch as her body tries to bear the increasingly capricious sensations. One moment she moves gracefully like a bird fluttering to the ground—sweetly alluring. At other times, she writhes so painfully her distress begs for compassion.
; Kirsten’s petrified by the sure agony that lies before her. But with repeated stimulation to her hungry pubic mound, the rising pain becomes just more fuel for pleasure. She is at an ecstatic peak when the first of the zippers is run from end to end, pins popping off as she screams. I see an anxious Flynn start for her as if he’s going to end this now, but Darren backs him off with his hand, and speaks to my simpering wife. Massaging away the pain in her ass cheeks, I can see the orgasmic signs begin to rise as she burgeons with desire for that final piece. They are on one wavelength, this master and my slave wife.
I smile self-satisfied. This is all I created it to be—to see Flynn understand her, for Kirsten to expose herself as the daring obedient slave she’s become. I’m proud of her, and enlivened to the point that I want to slide right in and end the session with two doms in charge. But the ending comes too swiftly, and I remain patient and respectful.
When Darren rips away the zipper of clothespins at her breasts, I hear her scream, and allow the moment to pass over me. Flynn is in awe. His cameraman practically loses himself, and the man that masters my slave, having more self-possession than any of us, completes her moment with his hand at her pubis, his lips at her ear whispering.
Kirsten contorts inside her bondage, cumming on his hand, and as the camera finishes the breathtaking exposé, I am in the room at her side, taking the other master’s place, holding her to me.
“It was you,” is all she whispers, and we ease her down. The blackened room is quiet, but for the conversation we have on a corner couch. She crawls to me for comfort. I press my lips against her closed eyelids and her soft mouth, kissing tears from her eyes and the smile on her lips.
“It’s always me, Kirsten,” I whisper back.
“And that’s why I love you,” she hums.
I think she’s done with Flynn now. She is as complete a wife as I can make her, and for herself, as complete a woman as she’s dreamed of being. She’ll go back to the magazine tomorrow and write an exposé on drugs or crime, or the Dali Lama, or perhaps the feminist politics she shuns with a grin on her face. She’s due a Pulitzer soon for her writing—and a promotion to senior editor. She’ll be all that by day.
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