Surefire

by Ashe Barker

  Startled, I glance up at him, then drop my eyes again, stare at my hands. Then I answer. “I’m thinking I’m scared. Scared I won’t be able to, you know, keep still and let you do it.”

  He pauses before responding, as though considering my concerns. “You know what’ll happen if you struggle, if you try to resist?”

  I cringe inwardly, dreading what’s to come. Afraid I’ll disappoint him, I want him to know I will try. “Yes. I won’t do it on purpose though. But I just don’t think I’ll be able to help it. And then you’ll make me put them back in there, in the freezer. It’ll just get worse.”

  “I’ll never punish you for something that’s not your fault. You know that. Look at me, Ashley.”

  I raise my eyes, he holds my nervous gaze with his calm, green eyes, waits for me to steady. “And I’ll never push you further than you can manage to go. You can do this. You will do it. Trust me. And after, I’ll give you such a good time, babe. You’ll feel so damned good, I promise you. Do we have a deal?”

  I gaze at him, see the sincerity there, the generosity and the caring. All for me. A deal? Indeed so. I murmur my response. “Yes. Thank you. Thank you, Sir.”

  His eyes gesture once more toward the board. “Your move, love. Make it count.”

  I, too, focus once more on the game, consider the moves available. I reach out for my remaining knight, intending to close in on his queen. His sharp hiss stops me, warns me to think again, look again. I do, and see that I could move my bishop and put him in check for a third time. I glance sharply up, his eyes are smiling at me, his eyebrows raised. I smile my thanks and make the right move.

  Tom nods, satisfied, and hands me the tube of lube.

  I look at it, at him, back at the tube. “How should I…?”

  “I want to watch, so I’d like you to kneel on the settee, facing away from me. You should be able to reach okay. You’ll need to work it in well, inside as well as outside.”

  I continue to look at the tube in my hand, considering how best to manage this.

  Tom’s deadpan “Tick tock, tick tock” spurs me into action. Still another check to score before I can take those damn beads out of the freezer, no time to waste sitting around staring at tubes of lubricant. I unscrew the cap, and turn around on the settee. Oddly, I do feel embarrassed doing this in front of Tom. I’ve assumed the position and allowed him to work lube into my anus so many times now it should be second nature, but this is different. This is harder, much harder. Tom says nothing, just settles back to enjoy the show.

  I squeeze a generous blob onto the fingers of my right hand, and reach carefully behind me to smear it over my anus. With a gulp, I gingerly insert one finger, just the tip, to test the opening there, try out the tension. The lube’s good, my finger slides in easily. I stir it around, spread the stuff liberally before withdrawing my hand to reload. This time I try to put the lube just on my finger end, thinking to push it farther inside. I’m sure that the better I do this job, the easier my next ordeal will be. I intend to make a decent effort, and, determined, I continue my task. I press harder, push my finger farther inside, the first knuckle, then the second, gently pressing until it’s fully inserted.

  “Now two fingers. You need to make sure the entrance is open, ready for the beads. It’ll be much easier for you.”

  I obey, heeding Tom’s advice. I slide two lubricated fingers easily into place, and with my shoulder stretched and bent awkwardly to reach behind me I work them in and out, all the time acutely conscious of his gaze on me, watching this most intimate act, enjoying my humiliation, my submission to his will. Eventually, my fingers still buried deep within my bum, I look back at him, over my shoulder. “I think I’m ready. But would you check? Make sure I’ve done it right? Please?”

  He gets to his feet, comes to stand behind me. I remove my fingers and drop my head onto my hands, kneeling in front of him, exposed and presented for his scrutiny. His approval. Wordlessly he pulls the cheeks of my bum apart, examines me with his eyes, then explores with his fingers. He’s gentle, but firm. One finger, then a second, turning his hand to thoroughly explore my inner space. I groan, my clit twitching for attention in spite of my nerves, in spite of my humiliation. He knows, he knows how I’m feeling, is aware of my arousal and works it, builds it. I’m shifting, squirming, lifting my bum higher for him, silently pleading for another orgasm.

  “Touch yourself if you want to. Use your other hand.” His murmur is soft, the permission sweet.

  I need no further urging and eagerly slide my fingers between my legs, rub my throbbing clit, soft at first, then hard, fast, the friction delicious as Tom continues to thrust his fingers in and out of my anus, his intention now clearly to arouse and satisfy. It works, it works quickly, and I climax again fast. My empty vagina clenches sharply, the ripples reaching his probing fingers. I hear his satisfied chuckle as he continues the inner massage and I finish my task, rubbing my fingertips furiously against my engorged, sensitive, greedy clit until the last surges of orgasm are pumped from me. Satiated at last, I relax. My fingers are still, although I’m still touching myself, tempted to slide them into my neglected vagina, see what I might achieve there.

  Tom gently withdraws his fingers, pats the right cheek of my bum softly as he leans around me to pick up the tube of lubricant. “Hold still, I’m going to put more, directly inside.”

  I shiver as he slips the nozzle of the tube inside my entrance, now loose and receptive, and squeezes lightly. I feel the cool gel penetrate me, and Tom slides his finger gently in to smooth it all the way through. Business like, satisfied that I’m fully prepared, he withdraws, pats my bum again and steps away, returns to his settee on his side of the coffee table.

  “Hopefully now you’ve had a bit of fun, you’ll be able to concentrate on the game. You need to finish this, Ashley. And soon.”

  So the anticipation’s getting to him too. Good. Maybe he’ll help me again.

  I turn around, acutely aware of the wetness, the lube oozing within and around me. I’m surely going to make a mess, ruin the settee. Tom grins, stands then leaves the room. He comes back a few moments later with a towel. He tosses it to me as he passes, on his way back to his seat. “Here, you might like to sit on that. Is it my move?”

  I nod as I arrange the towel under my wet and very thoroughly prepared bottom. My words, when I manage to force them out, are remarkably calm, considering, “Yes. Yes I believe it is, Sir.”

  The next few minutes tick by slowly. We exchange moves, nothing spectacular. I lose my bishop, manage to threaten Tom’s queen, he puts me in check, chases my king around the board for a few moves. I begin to panic a little. What if this takes too long, what if my opening becomes tight again, closes up before he, before… As ever, acutely attuned to me, Tom smiles at me, reassuring. “If you need to, if you ask me very politely, I’ll allow you to prepare yourself one last time, just before you take the beads from the freezer. Will that help, do you think?”

  My tight little smile back is answer enough, he nods, and we continue.

  In silence we exchange a few more nondescript moves, then I see it. He must have done it on purpose, exposed his queen again. I can take it with my remaining knight and get him in check. It’s a killer move. Christ! Has the invincible master of chess made a mistake? I look up, questioning. His green eyes are inscrutable, no clues there. He watches me as I look once more at the board, examine the pieces carefully for any chink in my plan, any sign I may be mistaken. No, it’s there. I can do it, the move’s legal.

  Deliberately, I pick up my knight, catch his gaze once more, and place my piece carefully and purposefully on the same space as the black queen. “Check. Sir.”

  His smile is slow, satisfied. Full of promise and anticipation. And gentle, playful menace. “Well done, Ashley. So, do you want a moment to prepare yourself, or can we proceed?”

  “A moment, please, Sir.”

  He nods, and I reach once more for the tube of lubricant. “May I?”
>
  He nods. “Of course.”

  I turn on the settee, my back to him as before and lean forward. I take another generous helping of lube on my fingers and reach around again to place it where it needs to be. I’m relieved to find that my entrance is still receptive, still open. Without hesitation I work two fingers inside, taking comfort from the recollection that the anal beads are much smaller than the width of my two fingers. And Tom’s fingers are even wider than mine, maybe he’ll oblige me by shoving them in first, just to make sure. Maybe if I ask him nicely…

  “It’s time, Ashley. Go and get the beads.” Tom’s tone is all Dom. Stern, obedience expected. Immediate obedience.

  I withdraw my fingers, place the tube of lubricant carefully back on the coffee table, the cap firmly screwed back on, and I get to my feet. Not entirely steady, I walk over to the drinks fridge and open the door. I slide open the ice making drawer. The pretty little beads are still nestled among the ice cubes, sparkling, shiny. And very very cold. Chewing hard on my bottom lip I pick them up, testing their temperature in my palm as I close my hand around them.

  Christ, so cold. So bloody cold. I turn back to Tom, my hand curled tight around the beads, thinking to play for a bit of time to warm them up as much as I can in the few moments I have. A risky strategy, he won’t tolerate much in the way of time wasting or prevarication, I know that. I make my way back to him, in no hurry, but not so much as to cause comment, attract further retribution. He has the lube in his hand, he’s removed the cap again. He holds it out to me.

  “Lube them up. Put plenty on, then place them there, on the table. He indicates the spot with a tilt of his head, then leans back to watch me do as he’s instructed.

  I manage to strike a balance of unhurried efficiency as I smear lube all over the beads, I count ten of them, graduating in size from one end of the thread to the other. They’re heavier than I remembered, and very smooth. That should be helpful. There’s a length of nylon cord extending from the narrow end and a small metal ring attached to the end of that. Obviously intended to facilitate easy removal. Idly, I note that the lube’s warm, the coating will protect me. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

  A quick tilt of his head to indicate I should put the beads on the table now is all the reminder I get that Tom’s waiting, and it’s time. I put them down and stand awkwardly beside him, waiting for his next move. He places one foot—and I notice he still has his outdoor boots on—against the edge of the coffee table to push it away from him, hard up against the settee where I was sitting. He creates the space in front of him, and makes himself comfortable, his knees slightly apart. He looks up at me.

  “You remember the rules? Once we start, you say nothing, make no sound. You don’t move, or make a fuss. You don’t wriggle, you don’t try to resist. I mean it, and I could tie you up, or gag you if that might help. Would it, Ashley?”

  I shake my head, quite definite about that. “No, I don’t want to be gagged. Or tied up. I’ll keep still. Well… I’ll try. But…”

  “That’s good. You might want to safe word so a gag could be awkward.” He pauses, watching me closely. “But what, Ashley?”

  “What if it’s been too long since I— Since I…got ready? What if I’m tight again? That’ll hurt more, won’t it?”

  “I’ll check before we start. Okay?”

  I nod.

  “Anything else?”

  I shake my head this time.

  He gestures to his thighs, his head tilted. “So…?”

  No further words, he drops his eyes to indicate I should lie across his knees. No detailed instructions required—I’ve been here many, many times before. I step forward, right up to him, place my hands on his left thigh as I lean over from the right, lower myself into position. I let go, allow my upper body to drape, to relax across and over him. He allows me the moments I need to shift and squirm and make myself comfortable.

  “Okay, Ashley?” His voice is low, seductive. He’s gently stroking and circling my buttocks with his fingers as he waits for me.

  Despite everything the next few minutes are to bring, I do so love his touch on my body. He knows that, and he doesn’t hurry, continues to caress me lightly. I stiffen, instinctively start to brace myself as he gently parts my buttocks to place a probing finger end in my slick opening.

  “Ashley, you’re tensing up. I know it’s hard, but the more you can relax the easier and quicker this’ll be. If you need a bit of time to collect yourself that’s fine. But the beads go back in the freezer.”

  “No. Just do it. Please, do it now.” I consciously relax my clenched buttocks.

  Obligingly, Tom he wastes no further time in slipping one, then two lubricated fingers into me. He slides them fully in, thrusts several times to assure me that I’m accessible.

  “Okay, that do you?”

  “Yes.” I hope he can’t hear the catch in my voice. Christ, I’m scared.

  Apparently not. “Yes what?”

  Subdued, submissive, I give the desired response. “Yes, thank you. Sir.”

  He withdraws his fingers, and his body leans over mine as he reaches for the beads. This is it. I close my eyes, grit my teeth, absolutely determined not to disgrace myself, or even worse finish up with the beads back in the freezer and it all to do again. He gently parts my buttocks again, and I concentrate on slackening my muscles, on becoming as pliable as I consciously can.

  And despite all of that, despite all my good intentions I jerk sharply as the first cold bead slips into me, it feels positively glacial and I hiss with the shock. I grip Tom’s ankle, squeeze it hard, my hands shaking. He never said I couldn’t touch him, and I hang on like grim death.

  “I’ll let that go, but no more moving. And not another sound, no sound at all. Understood?” His tone is hard, uncompromising.

  I nod, uncertain if he can see me, but I don’t dare speak. But he hasn’t told me to let go of his ankle, so I hang onto it as the next bead enters me. And the next. Swallowing down my own sobs, catching them ruthlessly in my throat and choking on them, I force my body to remain still, rigid, as he gently but firmly slips the beads into me, one after the other. No hesitation, no cruel taunting. He just gets on, does it quickly. The intense cold burrows deeper and deeper, filling my core with its frigid, icy presence. I want to scream, I want to push myself up, push his hands away from me and grab the beads myself, or the nylon cord, and haul them out. But I just clench my fingers even more tightly around his ankle, bite down hard on the whimpers of pain surging from my throat as every fiber of my being screams for relief from the cruel, biting, freezing pain now filling me.

  All I have to do is ask him. Just two words - Smithy’s Forge - and it’s all over. He’ll stop, remove the beads immediately, no doubt hold me and comfort me until I stop crying. He’ll tell me it’s all fine, doesn’t matter, because he loves me and he’ll never hurt me, never really hurt me. Then he’ll make love to me, and that’ll be wonderful, tender and caring and generous. But I’m not going to ask, not say those words. Because I love him, he’s my Master, my Dom, and I’ll obey him if I can. I’ll submit, surrender, trust him. And he’s right, I can do this. I want to do this. For him, and for me.

  “Lie still for a few minutes, get used to the feel of them inside you. Then I’ll help you up, sweetheart.”

  The worst of my ordeal apparently over, Tom’s voice is soft now, tender. I lie still across his thighs as his palm gently caresses my bottom. My teeth are chattering, whether from cold of fear I’m not entirely certain.

  “Ready to get up now?”

  I nod, murmur my response, and he slides his arm under me to gently raise my upper body, help me to straighten. I wince as the icy balls move inside me, the chill once more asserting itself. I bite my lip to keep from making any sound as he very gently turns me in his arms to seat me on his lap. He lifts the hair from my face, frames my cheeks in his palms. He kisses my forehead.

  “You can speak now, love. And if you want to swear. I
’ll understand. Just this once.”

  Too miserable even for that I just shake my head, conscious now, for the first time, of the tears on my cheeks. It’s been hard, so hard. The challenge of accepting, without making a sound, without moving, much more painful, in fact, than the icy chill of the beads. Even now, only moments later, my body heat has taken the edge off the cold. The beads are settled deep within me, with every movement they shift and roll, stimulating me in ways that are now both curious and erotic, an incredible sensation.

  “You’re crying, love. Your punishment’s over so no more tears now. Please.” And he’s kissing my face, kissing my tears away. I lift my hand, stroke his cheek and his lips find mine. My mouth opens under his and his tongue reaches inside, probing, tasting, exploring. Mine tangles with his, and as we shift again, as he angles his head to deepen the kiss, the beads caress me internally. And it feels absolutely wonderful, the slight chill just adding to the sensation now as they roll against my sensitive inner walls, filling that forbidden inner space. He catches my startled gasp in his mouth, lifts his head to chuckle.

  “I guess they’re warming up?” He nudges my nose with his, playful, teasing.

  “Oh, God, what’s that…? How are they doing that? That feels… Oh, my.” My head falls back as I moan my delight and pleasure. Tom takes the opportunity to reach down, between my legs, spread wide in instinctive invitation.

  He tugs lightly on the cord and the balls jerk, shift again, rolling against each other and against me.

  “Oh, sweet Christ…” I thrust my hips upwards.

  He tugs again, this time drawing the cord across my clit.

  I wriggle, frantic now, and he spreads his hand across my sensitive flesh, his middle finger just entering my anus. He presses on the balls there, at the same time using the pad of his thumb to rub my clit. I absolutely come apart in his arms, totally unravel as the sensation builds, explodes and overwhelms me. He increases the pressure, continues to stroke me even after the first frenzied climax starts to subside, and he whips it up again, now finding another finger to circle and tease the entrance to my vagina, dipping in there ever so slightly before taking my clit and rolling it between his finger and thumb. I’m writhing on his lap, and he gently lowers my upper body again so I’m lying down, my hair once more pooling on the floor as he brings his other hand into the action. I open my eyes, briefly glance up at him, but his eyes are no longer on me, on my face. Instead he’s intent on watching what’s happening between my widespread legs. He leans over, examining me closely as he teases and strokes me with his fingers, rubbing, easing me open, entering. He leaves the beads to do their job, to tantalize and torment me as he finger fucks me, hard and fast, his thumb never leaving my hungry, greedy clit. I shatter again, crying out now, frantic as the release claims me again, flings me around and spits me out to tumble, disoriented, back to earth.