Morgan stayed between Ian’s thighs, her thumbs resting on the still-fresh cuts. “This is your last chance to apologize, and make amends.”
Ian swallowed, her cunt still throbbing from the incomplete orgasm. This bizarre drugging-cum-bondage-cum-fear-and-terror- with-threat-of-electricity scene seemed to be ending. It was clear this dame had a few cups missing from her cupboard. Rather than fighting it, Ian figured it would be best to play along, until the bonds were untied. Then she could pull off the electrodes, grab her Marty, and get the fuck out of wherever she was. Later, she would have more than adequate time to revel in the joys of planning and executing an exacting retaliation. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“For what?”
“For not pleasing you.” Ian hoped that the sarcasm didn’t show in her voice.
“Oh, is that the only reason why?”
Ian was confused. Why should I have to apologize to this rotwijf in the first fucking place? She fucking drugged me and brought me here. What the hell is this all about? If I can just figure that out, maybe I can bargain my way out of this. Ian had to maintain control at all costs. Buy her time until she could escape.
“Well?” Morgan asked as her thumbs again pressed against cuts, watching Ian’s eyes roll back slightly.
“Umm. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Morgan slowly leaned over, showing Ian an impressive cleavage, and whispered “Denise” in her ear. Ian’s jugular pulsed a little more strongly and that pungent scent of fear emanated from her armpits. “Yes, even you remember Denise, don’t you?”
“All right, all right, I’m sorry I played with your kut Denise, or whoever the fuck she was,” Ian growled. “I even admit it was the hottest scene I’ve have in a long time. But Denise was just a one-time thing.” And she obviously wasn’t getting what she wanted from you, rotwijf, Ian said to herself, forcing her mind away from the scent of the blood and the pleasurable pain of Morgan’s thumbs on her cuts.
“That’s the problem with you, Ian,” Morgan responded. “You are one of those dreadfully shallow people who believes that a hot scene is the highest achievement you can reach. It’s a shame, really, because there’s so much more possible. Denise knew it, and was working to get there—until you placed yourself like the proverbial stumbling block before her.”
“What kind of bullshit are you talking about?” Ian snarled. “Denise never said she belonged to anybody, and the hungry little kut certainly didn’t stumble following me home! In fact, she was pretty near begging me to take her and keep her forever!” Ian smirked, sure now that this was a lover’s quarrel, and feeling no need to apologize for being the better top.
Morgan slapped Ian again, following it with a caress across her cheek with her nails, enjoying the involuntary shiver it provoked in her victim. Leaning forward, Morgan purred, “Listen, and listen carefully. You don’t seem to understand that you have committed a grave error. You played with the wrong girl. Not yours to do or to choose. You had the ill manners to enjoy it. In fact, you enjoyed it without thought, without doubt, without honor, and without a price.”
“Listen, lady, I don’t know what your problem is….”
“My problem is you, kuttenkopf.” Ian’s eyes snapped up in shock at the obscenity, but Morgan continued. “Your interference has cost me a great deal of time and potential….” Morgan stopped, realizing her anger made her say too much. She had almost said “fees.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ian asked, seeing that the question made Morgan uneasy, and remembering part of that long-ago conversation with Denise. “Wait. This is about this—this Marktplaats? ”
Morgan paused, stunned that Ian knew. Half a heartbeat later, she realized Ian didn’t know, and was just repeating something heard, no doubt from the traumatized Denise. She needed to turn Ian’s mind away from that thought, and quickly.
Moving swiftly, Morgan jerked the knife out of the table. Out of the corner of her eye, Ian saw the dame hold her Marty down, and, with horror, saw the knife descend toward it like a guillotine.
Ian’s stomach dropped. “What the FUCK are you doing?!” she screamed. There were times when the American curses seemed so much more…intense.
“Language, dear, language,” Morgan said, clearing the debris from the table, but Ian continued her multilingual cursing, straining at her bonds until she grew hoarse and bruised, and, finally, sobbing. Her Marty, her favorite dick, her best, irreplaceable.
Morgan stood watching her, quietly, with a smile à la the Mona Lisa until Ian finally slumped over, angry tears streaking her face, coughing herself into silence.
“We’re back to your need to apologize to me.” Morgan didn’t even bother to look at Ian, focusing her attention on the black box, instead, knowing that Ian’s attention would be drawn there, too.
“Okay, look, lady,” Ian said calmly, but through gritted teeth. “So I played with something that belonged to you—so what? Denise never said anything about an owner or mistress or lover or anything else.” But there had been someone, Ian remembered, her mind racing as Morgan fiddled with the box. Denise seemed to be expecting someone that night— that’s right—she asked Ian if she had been sent by someone or sent someplace. Of course Ian had said yes, knowing it would give her access to that delicious little slice of bottom. But now she was frantically trying to remember exactly what Denise had said.
Morgan set the controls. It was easy to overstimulate using electricity. The trick here was to cause pain when she wanted to, not for the convenience of the bottom. Timing was everything. She could dole out pain carefully and concisely for hours, given the right circumstances. The torment would start slowly then build faster and faster until Ian would regret the day that she laid eyes on Denise.
Morgan watched a drop of sweat work its way down Ian’s temple. Maintaining a soft and even tone, she said, “You can’t just waltz into someone’s life, take something that does not belong to you, and then discard it with nary a thought when you are done. People, while they enjoy objectification from time to time, are not objects. It took me a long time to find Denise. I cultivated certain tastes in her. Certain hidden desires were disclosed. Certain tests performed. Then in one fell swoop you snatched her up at the bar, had your way with her, and without so much as a second thought discarded her. You undid in four hours what took my valuable time and effort to discover and arouse…and this was not the first time.”
“What the hell were you testing for anyway? Cooking? Screwing? Loyalty?” Ian’s mind was racing—hadn’t Denise said something when they first met, something about a test? “What do you mean, ‘not the first time’? Have you been stalking me?”
Morgan ignored Ian’s questions and veiled accusations. Threats were easy to make when you were all tied up, but it was a terrible loss of face. It was the beginning of the end for her quarry. Morgan had already wasted several months with the Denise fiasco and hoped that word did not get out into the Marketplace. Trainers were particular in their require- ments, tastes, and ethics. She had already lost out twice on preselected clients that Ian had taken and then driven into despair and suspicion. No one liked to work with clients who wondered whether the next master would hurt them as much as the last—and in ways they did not enjoy! And yet, there was nothing she could—or should—do to such a dangerous, cold predator in her world, not according to the guidelines her colleagues agreed upon.
And yet, here she was, her prey attached to her slender, painful leashes, and her hands on the controls. It felt good, like salt in the mouth. She had gone too far not to carry this forth to the end.
“I have been waiting patiently for this opportunity,” Morgan informed her adversary. “ ‘The time has come, the day is near, I will pour out my fury on you and exhaust my anger at you; I will judge you as your conduct deserves.’ Ezekiel 7:9.”
Ian’s eyes flew open as the first dose of current ran through her body. Morgan was somewhere behind her, out of sight, or maybe even out
of the room. Wel verdomme, now what, Ian thought. Electricity was one of those things that no matter how much you fought the inevitable would happen…you’d get zapped. Each zap increased the stress, which in turn increased the sweat production. Sweat has this marvelous property, salt, which increases conductivity, thereby increasing the severity of the sensation. Just when she thought that it was getting better, the electricity varied. It peaked and pulsed and zapped at unexpected times. Her body jerked and twisted. Her lips were dry, as was her mouth.
Ian tried performing deep breathing exercises. If she could somehow distract her mind it would all work out. She needed to yield to the sensations, as much as she could. She tried to let go as she had seen others do in the past. Having never experienced submission, it was not something that she could simply do. She tried to concentrate on the way Morgan’s face looked when she mentioned the Marketplace. But it wasn’t enough. The stress of trying prevented the very relaxation that she was seeking. Ian stopped thinking and started screaming. Once she started she could not stop. She screamed to her heart’s content. It no longer mattered how she looked or what the woman thought. Survival and pain were all that she thought about. Ian’s body finally did the only thing it could to escape, and a smile crossed her lips as the room became black.
A stream of water struck her face, and Ian found herself still seated, but freed from the electrodes. Morgan was standing before her, with a pair of nipple clamps that did not look like anything that she had ever seen before. They had broad tips and large knobs shaped like propane valves. Ian’s nipples were quickly trapped in the rubber-coated teeth. Morgan started tightening the knobs until she had the nipple trapped between them, but not hard enough to cause any pain.
“No, no, please—enough, enough, I have learned my lesson, I swear it,” Ian tried to say, as Morgan pulled out a cane and tested it in the air before Ian’s eyes.
“But I want you to feel what it is that you have subjected others to,” Morgan said, stroking the smooth, flexible rod. “You believe yourself to be devoid of feeling. But is that what you really want to be? I will show you a glimpse of your soul. A chance for your redemption. ‘The Great Day of Anger has come, and we will see who survives.’ Revelations 6:17. Shall we begin?”
In a split second the cane whooshed through the air, embedding itself in Ian’s flesh before bouncing back. An intense and fearful shriek was torn from her lips followed by a string of expletives that would make a Swede blush. A reddish welt was already visible across the front of her exposed thighs. Ian had always avoided those damned pieces of rattan. Try as she might, she had never been able to quite master them. But she had to admit they were effective; this one strike drove all the breath from her and made her see stars.
These momentary thoughts were interrupted by another cane stroke. There was just no way out of this one. It was bizarre to be caned while seated, her body believing that she could just stand up and leave, only to be defeated by the restraints. The caning continued and Ian thrashed about like a fish on a line, able to see each stroke’s mark across her thighs, breasts, and stomach. Her flinching and thrashing finally knocked the chair over.
Morgan’s strokes did not slow or alter. No attempt was made to place Ian upright, or even in a more comfortable position. New marks appeared on parts of Ian’s body that had not been exposed before. Morgan admitted silently that she was enjoying herself. This was about punishment pure and simple. The cane was an instrument that led straight to the soul. Most people could dish out a hell of a lot more than they could take, but that was not the case with Morgan. She had taken a caning just like this before. It was the one thing that separated her spirit from her body and allowed her to soar.
The caning continued until Ian was reduced to a pile of red, bruised, blubbering flesh. She apologized, she confessed, she told the woman that she would never do it again, she begged and promised and cajoled and even made a threat or two in the beginning, Then there was nothing that she could do. She just wanted the caning to stop. She needed to regain her sanity and that was not possible with the flurry of blows she was experiencing.
Then, quite suddenly, Ian no longer cared about appearances. It was no longer possible to think about appearances. All of her defenses, one after another, came crashing down. She had never felt this vulnerable before and yet at the same time she became aware of a humiliating dampness between her legs. There was a fire of a different sort starting. Even as she begged forgiveness for all manners of sin, she stopped feeling any pain at all. Her eyes were rolling around in her head and howls slowly turned to moans and whimpers.
Morgan, aware of these types of changes in herself, was fascinated that the mighty Ian was not above succumbing to her bodily needs. She slowed and toyed with Ian, giving her a taste—just a small taste—of the peace of mind that comes only when one is stripped of pride and arrogance.
When Morgan stopped, she was covered in sweat and her breathing was labored. Not the type of breathing that comes from a good workout, but the kind that comes from being aroused. She stood over Ian and relished the sensation. Morgan bent down and, with a bunching of her shoulders and arms, righted the chair. With absolute precision, she stepped back, aimed her cane, and then struck the nipple clamps simultaneously, causing them to pop off. Ian was instantly snapped back into her body and the most unearthly sound emanated from between her lips, accompanied by an earth-shattering, body-shaking orgasm. Morgan turned on her heel and left the room.
Ian was kneeling, her body trembling, focusing her attention on Morgan’s feet. She wondered if it would be too desperate to lie prostrate, kissing the tips of the black leather boots. She was terrified that she would be sent away now, just as she had found this yawning need in her. She was terrified, because she knew that was exactly what was going to happen.
“You and I differ in an important way, Ian,” Morgan was explaining. “You hunt, capture, then discard. I want you to understand—really understand—what it would mean if I sent you away now, with no way to contact me, knowing that you would never see me again.” She watched without moving as a tear dropped onto the toe of her polished boot. “This is, after all, what you do, is it not?” She noted the tears streaking down Ian’s face as she nodded yes.
“That is because you are a player,” Morgan continued, spitting the word out. “I do not play. This work I do is my calling. It is, in fact, my profession. Although,” she chuckled, “not in the way you might think.
“Unlike you, I recognize my prey has value beyond the beating and the fucking. Until you learn the same, I do not wish to see you again.” Ian choked awkwardly, drawing in a ragged breath, but did not speak. Morgan watched her approvingly.
“I am letting you walk out my front door, so you know where I live, and know how to find me again. I am not, like you, afraid to be found. Indeed, I welcome being found.
“Show me you have been redeemed, demonstrate that you recognize the value of the people around you, bring me proof of your repentance, and I may consider working with you further.”
Ian stumbled out the front door, the street noises and scents from the Bloemenmarkt easing through the haze in her mind enough to orient herself, and to ensure that she memorized the address and street of Morgan’s house. She wanted to return as soon as she left, but knew she could not. Not without giving her Lady what she required.
She shoved her hands in her pockets, shivering, and felt her fingers brush against a scrap of paper. Pulling it out, she found a torn piece of paper with a phone number scrawled across it, with the note “D—please call.” The “please” was underlined twice. Her loins twitched even before her mind recognized who the note was from. Ian sighed. This could be the way back into Morgan’s house. A gift. To lay at the feet of her Lady.
Morgan was a jumble of emotions. Her anger was spent and now she was simply excited beyond belief. She entered her bathroom and started the steam shower. Leaning over the sink and popping out the green contacts to show clear blue eyes, she thought abo
ut how Ian not only had talent as a potential scout, but also had the makings of a half-way decent piece of property. A bit rough around the edges with a lot to learn, but definitely trainable. She was concerned about her standing as a spotter for the Marketplace, but then again this little adventure had not involved anyone but outsiders. If Ian remained quiet, whether from humiliation or hopeful obedience, no one would be the wiser. She did not think Ian would go to the police with a fantastic tale of drugged beer and electrical torture in a hidden dungeon. Shame on Denise for mentioning the Marketplace to an outsider, to begin with—if she ever regained her confidence and belief in what Morgan had to offer, Morgan would address that issue with her. Perhaps it would all work out in the end.
Morgan removed the red wig, shaking out her raven-black wavy hair before entering the near-scalding hot shower. As her muscles relaxed she thought of the payoff for the punks, then turned her musings to Ian. Mentally, she bet against herself as to how long it would be before Ian returned to her door—to earn back the undamaged Marty that lay on the table in her dungeon. No, Morgan was never one to throw away anything that showed quality. Or to lose something of value without someone paying for it.
Farewell to Rain Woman
Thea Hutcheson
Linda is fucking me. Every stroke is designed to invoke Rain Woman. Linda pinches my right nipple and nuzzles me, then the tide is rising, a warm, brimming feeling up from the deepest center of me.
It is warm and inexorable, my gift as the high priestess of bottom pleasure to my lover. I stare at Linda as she fucks, and drink in her clean-cut dyke face. She has a fresh, athletic build, and a soft, but well-defined, handsome face that speaks volumes to my pussy.
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