To Obey Her

by Jillian Boyd

It was like a déjà vu moment, except the original event had never actually happened, it had just been a fleeting fantasy. In Linda’s playroom, I looked at the reflection of myself in a pillory and behind that a reflection of me from the rear that included Linda holding a flogger. Had I been able to turn my head to either side, I would have had a similar fun- house-like side view.

  The velvety touch of Linda’s hand on my buttocks was soothing. She stroked each cheek gently, then briefly let her hand snake between my legs to tease my anus. I knew that this was the calm before the storm. Soon I would receive my first taste of recreational corporal punishment.

  Linda began telling me that preparing a sub for his introduction to the whip was a special experience for her, similar to undressing an eager virgin. Whatever their misgivings, she said, they always did it willingly, because it was something they had been longing for, fantasizing about. She even admitted to having a sense that she was somehow chosen for the privilege of facilitating their destiny.

  And because it was such a threshold moment, she never rushed. Linda wanted the event to live up to their dreams, and to be the source of exceptional memories. And if she were to be completely honest, Linda added, she wanted those same things for herself as well.

  Toward the end of her discourse, Linda began trailing the tendrils of the flogger along my arse and upper thighs, precipitating a serious outbreak of goose bumps, as the reality of being whipped became imminent, and impossible to ignore. After tormenting me in this fashion for a while, she started to gently swat my arse with the flogger, gradually increasing the intensity of the strokes until there was escalating pain with each impact of leather on skin. The harder and longer Linda flogged me, the more I succumbed to a sense of total abandon, and eventually began to acclimatize to the pain and relish it.

  So many things were going through my mind during the session. Foremost, I was immensely pleased that I had finally realized my fantasy and that it measured up to my expectations. It was tremendously exciting to allow my body to be punished for the pleasure of my mistress, to endure pain for her. What’s more, I felt very fortunate that Linda had chosen me to be her bottom.

  The flesh from my thighs to my upper back was crisscrossed with burning, red welts by the time Linda put down the flogger. Inexplicably, my cock was painfully hard and oozing evidence of my arousal. Despite these warring sensations, I was experiencing an overpowering sense of release and calm: my mind was clear and peaceful.

  I was stirred from my reverie by the touch of Linda’s fingertips lightly brushing over the enflamed flesh on my arse. Before long her fingers drifted to my anus and began teasing it, eventually insinuating themselves inside. After she had stretched the opening a little Linda spread my cheeks apart and began easing a well-lubricated strap-on into me, ever so slowly, until my cavity was full and our bodies were flush to one another.

  Spanking my still-hard cock sharply, Linda leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You won’t be using this any more, now that you’re a bottom.” With that, she began rhythmically deflowering my virgin hole. She took me gently at first, then gradually built up speed, until finally she was pounding me energetically, splitting me apart with each thrust. It was exquisitely humiliating, knowing that I was no longer in charge of my sexuality, yet somehow it felt right. By the time Linda had finished skewering me, my rectum and prostate were glowing and my penis hung limply, semen dripping profusely from its eye.

  As I was processing having been flogged and pegged for the first time, I found myself thinking about reading Linda’s interpretation of the scene for her work-in-progress the following day. Then I began to laugh when it suddenly struck me how surreal my life currently was, living out a kinky avant-garde story for Linda’s fans. Sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction.

  The Tie that Binds

  Hollis Queens

  Holding my hand as flat as I could against the base of the sewing machine, I gently fed the satin through until it was perfectly stitched together. As temperamental as the fabric was, it felt so good against his skin and had the strength to hold up against the strain. Plus, it was hot pink, he hates pink. He won’t even wear the shirts in pastel pink to work like his co-workers do. I can’t wait for him to get home from work to try out the new body harness I’ve designed. The extra four feet of fabric was going to be wrapped around his eyes as a blindfold before dropping down to gag his mouth. I planned on harnessing his torso as I normally did. But I’d researched a new way to bind his cock and balls. I just needed to finish the thinner ribbon that is to attach the small weight I bought to his throbbing member.

  Tyler Lock, my husband of three years, would be home in a few hours. So, I had to hurry. He’d texted me at lunchtime to say that work was horrible and that he had only eaten a small lunch. It was all code. The ‘small lunch’ meant he wanted some arse play, but not full penetration. ‘Horrible’ meant both that it was a rough day on the trading floor and that he needed me to make it hurt later. I would have to remember to exchange the leather cattle prod for the metal studded paddle... or maybe the braided whip. So many choices to be made before he arrived.

  We’d both left our flat in Chislehurst before sunrise. He’d taken the train into London to trade commodities for the next seven hours. I’d gone for a run, just to the caves and back. I returned to spend a few hours volunteering for a child advocacy group out of London, mostly working on updating the website. But the remainder of my day would be taken up with planning tonight’s events.

  He’s my full-time job. A job I’ve been working for over seven years now. Finance will take everything out of you; I know this from firsthand experience. I think that’s one of the reasons he chose to marry me. The world is full of more beautiful women, smarter women, better Dommes, but I understand what he goes through. I understand the stress it causes, the culture that overworks its most fervent supporters and creates a never-ending feeling of inadequacy and humiliation. In some ways, corporate finance is the cruellest mistress of them all. No wonder we’ve both devoted so many years to her.

  I was a manager of back office commodity investigations team for a global corporation, sent up to New York to work on a new trade capture system. He was flown over from London as an assistant trader to advise on the same project. Working together was like trying to mix oil and water. In hindsight, I was too unprofessional. Too personable for the job. I was promoted because I worked hard and people liked working with me, but I knew it was never going to last. I’m a giver, but there is a limit to my ability to take people’s shit. I also loathe appearances, and the corporate world is little else.

  I thought he was a cocky fuck who wore hideous jumpers. People tolerated him because you could tell he was going places, but he didn’t really have any friends like I did back home. He didn’t strike me as lazy, but you could tell he was more concerned with kissing arse than working his arse off. He also spent more time on his hair than I did. That was enough of a reason for me to hate him, but there was so much chemistry between us. Still is.

  Pouring the gin into the tonic, lime wedge and ice, I got ready to cook dinner. If I was going to work him over good tonight, we were both going to need a hardy dinner after. Roast was my go-to meal for a long session, slow and low for a few hours. I did the onions last, because they always make me cry.

  He made me cry too, on our first date. It was a happy hour for my last day in New York before returning to Delaware, a happy hour that only one other person attended. I was never the most popular with the higher ups. After the lone guest had his obligatory drink and bailed, my future husband suggested we go to dinner. He picked the restaurant which was several blocks and avenues away. I wanted to walk there, but he refused and hailed a cab. The food was forgettable; the company was not. We never struggled with conversation, even then. He invited me back to his place to have a drink. The suite had been upgraded when he’d complained about his previous room. This room had a
television in the bathroom; that was the first thing he showed me. Like the extravagance of having entertainment in the loo was some reflection of his value as a person.

  The tour ended in the bedroom, where he pointed out the matching Egyptian cotton robes which he informed me we’d be wearing after sex. I think if I had given into him then, we wouldn’t be together now. He always remembers that I left that night without even a goodnight kiss. I always remember he let me walk back to my hotel room alone. The more room that is left to wiggle, the tighter the knot gets.

  I fasten the strap-on on the post on the staircase to practice tying the final knots that will confine his balls to the length of his penis. It’s the strap-on I use to take Ty on Fridays when he’s in the mood. Tie. Ty. It’s ridiculous how his name makes perfect sense to those that know his secret. A secret he revealed to me through the texting we did outside of the office once he returned to London. The texting turned quickly to sexting. He would make me spend hours describing what I was going to do to him. We would break up anytime one of us met someone else. Actually, he was the only one who ever met anyone. I was going to completely cut off contact after the last time, but then he got sick.

  He had this tube that went up his nose and into his stomach, something to measure acid levels. It’s called stress, but he was convinced it was his diet. I think it was his desire to lose his baby weight that inspired his new eating habits. Fortunately, neither the tube nor the dieting lasted long. We had started video chatting at that point. Because of the time difference, I would sometimes leave him a message ordering him to perform a series of acts which he would then record and send to me for viewing once I got home. The video always started with a close-up of his face with the tube that reminded me of Gerrard from Peep Show. The acts relied more on humiliation than pain, and always required a lot of planning. He was needy from the start. I would make him jack off in pantyhose purchased at particular shops or come into his hand and lick it up. A few times I had him back up to the camera and use a belt on his arse.

  I sank into the bubbles filling the white porcelain tub and mentally planned out the evening. My cell phone was sitting on the table I kept next to my tub; I sent off a quick text asking him to pick up stockings on the way home, queen sized, black, from the shop on the corner next to Chislehurst Station. I have thick thighs, so there was little fear that the woman who was always behind the counter would think anything of it. Then I sent another text, adding a ruler to the list. Let him explain that one. The last one had been broken across his bottom months before and never replaced.

  He loved the feel of rulers, but it took a lot for me to use them. It was what my mother had used on me growing up. Ty and I were two ends of a rope that started at one point and crossed over into another. His parents were hippies; his idyllic summers spent frolicking naked on Studland Beach on the South Coast of England. My parents belonged to a religious cult. Our roles should have been reversed. He should have revelled in the rigidness and power of the dominant. And I should have found comfort in the strap that was so familiar.

  Ropes are made of many threads. While a portion of my threads were submissive and conditioned to crave the pain and humiliation, the remainder of the threads were rebellious and fought back. My mother’s hair was never cut as per the articles of her god. They would cascade within reach as I was forced over her knee. Writhing under the stinging blows of her ruler, I would grab handfuls and pull as hard as I could. Even though it meant she would only beat me harder, I still fought back. I had to make her pay.

  Sometimes I think about her when I’m punishing him. It’s like role-play, like therapy. I am her and he is me and this knot I carry around in the pit of my stomach is his to carry. He has his knot and I have mine. His is tied daily, and every night I beat the knot until it unties, a loose pile of cord waiting to be balled and tightened in the name of the almighty pound the next day. My knot is older and tighter, but each night I have the chance to work it a bit looser.

  I buckle the strap of my pump and look into the mirror. It’s funny how I spend more time getting ready for our dates than I ever did for work. Black fishnets, black lace bra, no panties. My shoulder-length blonde hair is pulled back in a tight pony. It is still wet from my bath, so it makes me look even more severe. I apply my eye makeup and bright red lipstick. My painted frown won’t leave my face for the rest of the night. For the next few hours, I don’t have to be my normal bubbly self. I hear the door open downstairs.

  ***

  He is on his knees on my bed, head buried in my hairy snatch while I lay back, head propped up on pillows, tapping his lily-white ass with a long riding crop. He is naked from the waist down, but I made him keep his fucking ugly jumper on. I grab his head and grind my wetness into his face. His moans feel so good on my clit that I lash him several more times in quick succession. When he focuses on what he is doing, he gives great head. When his mind starts to wander back to work, I just whip a bit harder, and he is back, focused on my cunt again. I have to apply the strap a few more times than normal; he wasn’t exaggerating, it must have been a horrible day.

  Next, I order him to strip off the offending knitwear and assume position number 5 on the bed while I get the cuffs. Both are thick leather, a lesson we learned early on. When you use your hands every day for work, it is best not to invite the nerve damage that comes with steel handcuffs, even if the pain is delightful. I do his hands first, affixing them to the lower portion of the custom-made metal headboard. His feet are pulled back over his head and separated with a spreader bar. As portly as my husband is, he is surprisingly flexible.

  Sometimes I think of all his demands as cuffs that I wear during the day. Like his needs and wants are the cord that he uses to bind me. Maybe that is why I enjoy confining him so much. Like the thrill I get from tightening his restraints lets him know. This is how I feel all the time. Trapped in the fantasy, I have no way of escape, unless he lets me go. Sometimes I wonder which one of us is truly the master.

  The string of pearls drags along the skin on the back of his thigh, occasionally catching on stray hairs. It was a present I gave him on our first anniversary. My other hand holds a bottle of lube. I climb on the mattress and position myself astride his head, feet at either ear. Grabbing the spreader bar for balance, I lower myself onto his waiting lips. He goes down on me as I go down on him. His tongue runs laps around my clit before spearing me with its hardness. As much as I would like to savour the moment, I have to get to work.

  Both his exposed arsehole and the necklace are well-lubed when I begin sliding the pearls in one by one. My index finger pushes in the first white ball and then another into his puckered, pink hole. Over and over until I get half of the two feet strand into him. Looping the remainder around his hard cock, I do a semi-split with my legs to the side and the majority of my weight directly on his face. I lean forward slowly, freeing his nose from my crack. He takes a large breath and goes back to work on slithering his tongue into my pussy while I take his erection and the pearls into my mouth.

  It stays a slow 69 until I grab his thighs for leverage and start cramming as much as I can down my throat. The pearls stretched the inside of my mouth while massaging his prick. His balls begin to tighten. I know this is the start of his orgasm, so I spit him out. His slimy, pearl-adorned dick lies rigid against his heaving belly. Once I am confident he won’t cum, I unwind the exposed pearls and start pulling the hidden ones free. It is time to prepare him for the second act.

  ***

  He stands in the middle of the living room. His legs are still spread, but the rest of him is bound tightly with the satin ribbon I made earlier, tied exactly as I had been practicing. I had attached a collar around his neck to lead him down the stairs. It had been a long walk down the stairs with the spreader bar still attached, and he had gone flaccid during the journey. I often sat in a chair and just looked him over. He hated the fact that he was overweight, but I loved
the fleshiness of his physique. After a few minutes of observation he was rock hard again, so I tied the smaller ribbon with the weight attached to his tip. It was only a few ounces, but as I let it drop from my hand, it caused his dick to bob.

  It was being pulled in two places at once. The strain of the weight was fighting against the pull of his erection. I knew how it felt. Part of me loved this, loved him, but there was another side of the rope that questioned how long this could continue. I spent so much time and effort on creating this world almost every night. Couldn’t I be doing something more meaningful with my life?

  My left hand was around his throat; it was helping him keep his balance while I assaulted his now red cheeks with the medal studded, leather paddle. Each whack sent his body lurching forward, until it was held in place by my grip on this neck. The weight bobbed and tugged every time my paddle connected with his rawness. He was crying now. Little sobs that moistened the hot pink blindfold at his eyes mimicked the stains made on the gag as he drooled freely. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

  I don’t speak until the end, and the only reason I even do that is because he needs the words to come. The man who makes his living by numbers needs me to say the words to get him off. He is lying on the floor of our bedroom in the pantyhose I asked him to pick up on his way home. I have removed the spacer and the collar, the satin ribbons and the weights. He and I are only in our stockings, and I am riding him hard. I take all the things I want to tell him and say the opposite. In my own way I tell him how big and strong he is. I tell him how hot he makes me and how much I love him.

  I hump my mound on his nylon-ensnared prick while I wrap one hand around his throat and apply the ruler to his hip with the other. I ride him like a horse, like my pet pony, harder and harder. I hold everything that he is in the palm of my hand, and I feel a surge of power in knowing that he can’t come until I allow him. I look straight into his eyes and watch his face turn red until the knot completely unwinds and his juices mingle with mine.