Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray

by Kilpatrick, Nancy

  “I move to you and when we are close, my hands come up and press against your chest. I look up at you, expecting a kiss, but you only stare at my face, into my eyes. I know my eyes must look questioning.

  “You take my hands in yours, kiss my fingers, still watching me. Your kiss always melts me, until my body becomes a stream of hot lava, flowing.

  “You hold my wrists and move my hands away from you, and down, and then behind me, until my wrists are behind my back and you have locked both of them in the steely grip of one of your hands. This forces my shoulders back, my breasts forward. I find being captured exciting, and can feel energy churning at my crotch. All of these signals suggest to me that you feel very dominant. I find that thought extremely arousing, but the arousal is mixed with fear. I have been the one in the dominant role, of late, and I find that the notion of giving that up leaves me frightened—I do not know what to expect.

  “‘Tonight, Dorianne, I want you to obey me,” you say. “Will you do that?”

  “‘Yes, Lord Henry,’ I answer very quickly. Too quickly, we both know. I cannot envision what you will do to me. I do not know what you are capable of. There are no words between the extremes you envision for me and my ability to control you.

  “As if reading my mind, you say to me, ‘Tonight you are mine, Dorianne. At your request, I will cease. And if I cease, I will simply end this, and disappear from your life forever. There will be no fare-thee-wells. You will not see me again. Do you understand?’

  “I consider the implications of this for a moment, afraid to agree. I have hated you for so long, despised you, wished nothing more than that you would be gone from my life. And now that this opportunity presents itself, I find this is the last thing I want. That you have risked this, excites me, as I know it must excite you.

  “‘Right oh, m’lord!’ I say, in the silly affectation of our class.

  “My response brings a slow, dangerous smile to your lips. Somehow, it occurs to me that by answering you in this flippant way, instead of gaining control over you—which I acknowledge might be my hidden motive—I may have just given over some control. But I can’t understand how.

  “I am confused about the dynamic that just occurred as you release my wrists. You take a step back and unbutton your shirt. I start to unfasten the stays of my bodice.

  “‘What are you doing?’ you snap.

  “You hand pauses in the midst of your task. Mine pauses as well.

  “Before I can answer, you say, “Did I request you to do that?’

  “‘But, I thought…’

  “‘When did I ask you to think? You do not need to think to obey!’

  “My confusion escalates. The confusion breeds fear. I catch my bottom lip between my teeth. I begin retying the strings.

  “Suddenly you grab me and pull me close, your hands clutching my upper arms, your face inches from mine. Your voice is low. Controlled. I find the power emanating from you utterly erotic, and, at the same moment, terrifying. ‘Did I request you to do that either?’ Your voice is firm. I believe you are a bit angry.

  “I find myself becoming angry. ‘No, Lord Henry, you did not!’

  “‘Then why are you doing it?’

  “I cannot answer. I do not know why. I had something in mind, that you wanted this, but I see now this was incorrect. And now I do not know what you want. My anger still churns within me, but I am terribly confused again.

  “‘Just a moment ago you agreed to obey me, so very quickly. Yet all that you’ve done so far is nothing but disobedience.’

  “I search your eyes. Your words ring through my mind. It is as though you want me to submit my will to yours. Yet I cannot see your will. And I cannot see how to relax mine. Perhaps if I could soften my own, I could see yours clearly. I become lost in thoughts of this nature as you push me back to where I stood moments ago.

  “You finish unbuttoning your shirt. Slowly, you remove it and place it over the back of a chair. Then you undo the buckle of your belt, which I see is made of the length of leather I gave you. You pull the belt from the loops of your trousers. You place the belt on the small night table. Then you remove your trousers, boots, everything else. This time I do nothing but watch you.

  “You stand before me naked. The candle glow on your body is lovely. You are like a classical painting, a statue come to life, a being from another world. A being that can offer me immortality, if only for moments. I feel heat rise through my loins. Your cock is firming. I want to reach out and touch it, to caress it, to convey to you how much I desire you. I want you to fulfill my desires. But you have not told me to do this, and I have learned at least that much. So, I do nothing, only stand with an ache growing in my body, an ache for you. An ache of longing that you can fulfill, if you want to.

  “You turn and walk to the bed and sit in the middle, your back against the headboard, your legs out in front of you. Your hand is within reach of the night table, of the drawer there. You place several down pillows behind you for comfort. You take much time getting comfortable. I stand, waiting, growing nervous, unsure of myself, what will happen, what will I feel, what can I and can I not tolerate?

  “Suddenly you look at me and say, ‘Come here, Dorianne.’

  “For me, it is like taking a step through a dark doorway. I do not know what lies inside this door. I can imagine. But all that I imagine is never the way it actually is. To take a step toward you now is to walk into darkness, a darkness that will alter me, but I cannot be certain how.

  “For some moments I am caught between the desire to experience, and terror of what that experience will be. Desire wins out. I move toward the bed. Toward you. Toward change.

  “‘Kneel here,’ you tell me, pointing next to you on the bed.

  “I am wearing boots, stockings, bloomers, of course. I wonder if you want me to remove my boots, but you have not said that, so I make no move to do this.

  “I lift my skirts to just above my knees and kneel on the bed next to you. Slowly you unfasten the stays at my bodice and pull it open. You had instructed me to wear nothing beneath, yet I have on a corset, which lifts my breasts high. I am acutely aware of this now, that is was important, is important, and that I did not pay attention to one of your requests. I can see on your face that you, too, are aware of this, but you say nothing.

  “You slide the fabric of the top of my dress down my shoulders, then lower, until my breasts are exposed. I watch as you move your hand slowly over one of my exposed breasts. Your touch, as always, rattles me. You reach for one nipple, the right. The nipple is already firm and seems to invite your lips. But your lips do not meet it. Instead, your fingers play, rubbing the flesh, which causes me to squirm, twisting and pinching, and that causes me to writhe and moan. My eyes close.

  “‘Look at me!’ you demand.

  “I try to focus on your eyes and the image of the candle flame flickering there. It is very difficult to meet your gaze. My passion is so obvious, almost liquid. Every twist and pinch and stroke of my nipple reveals more of my vulnerability. It is as if I am naked and you fully clothed, not the other way around.

  “I feel my cunny seeping juices into the crotch of my bloomers—the crotch is saturated. My vaginal walls tense. The temperature is rising. My nipple is so sensitive it can barely stand this much attention, but it loves it. Shamelessly I thrust my breast toward you for more. This makes me feel wanton and lustful and embarrassed as you force me to have eye contact so that you can watch as my carnal soul is revealed. My mouth is open and I am panting like some kind of thirsty animal. My vision blurs but I struggle to see you. To keep the connection.

  “This fine torture has me weaving. I want to cling to something yet there is nothing, just your fingers toying with my nipple, holding me up. My mouth is dry, my pussy wet, my mind spinning. It is very very difficult to do more than be passive while you control my every sensation, and though those sensation, my feelings and thoughts. I know my face expresses a pleading you understand very well. A
pleading for you to cease. To cease what feels like embarrassment to me. What feel humbling. What feels effacing. What feels so delicious I want you never to stop. But I know that no matter what I say or do, you will have your way with my nipple as long as you desire to. You will do all that you want to it, to me. And I can but writhe on this stick of sensation that you have skewered me with until you have cooked me to your liking.

  “Your eyes are so masterful. The thought crosses my mind that I might be able to give myself over to you. I just might. You look as though you can maintain control, without buckling. I may be able to trust you.

  “As if reading my thoughts, you say, ‘No, Dorianne, you will submit to me tonight. Understand that. Now. Throughout the evening. Your fears, your desires. I will have all of it!”

  “A spasm shoots through my vagina. I cry out a little, startled at this orgasm that comes from nipple stimulation combined with words. If you can do this to me with so little effort, I cannot imagine what else is in store!

  “Your hand does not leave my nipple immediately, but when it does, the flesh of my breast tingles and throbs, as if you have brought something that has been hibernating awake. Your hand moves to my shoulder. Slowly but firmly you pull me down, so that I am lying across your lap. My hands are out in front of me, like a penitent. I turn my head away, acutely embarrassed. I know what is coming, but not precisely. I feel a secret thrill and a building humiliation coupled with fear.

  “‘Face me,’ you say.

  “Reluctantly, I turn my head so that I am facing you. You smooth back my hair, so that my face is exposed. I cannot clearly see you, with my cheek against the comforter, but you can see me, at least in profile, readily enough. Again, it is as if you are dressed and I am naked, and this juxtaposition of reality I find unsettling.

  “‘How frequently have you been spanked? Not caned, but spanked properly?’ you ask.

  “I hesitate, torn between lying and telling the truth—both seem impossible. I recall vividly the evening at the Baroness’ home, when you held me over your knee while she applied the wicker cane so forcefully to my behind. I was inebriated then and, while the caning hurt, I was also inured to it. And then there was Vita and her wicked leather straps and paddles. And finally when you punished me at the Duchess’ country home.

  “‘Not often,’ I finally admit.

  “‘And what does ‘not often’ mean?’

  “Again, I hesitate. My breathing betrays my excitement and fear. ‘Miss Pruit has spanked me. The stablehand. The leathersmith. You, yourself, had a go at my behind with the switches, and that other time—’

  “‘Did you enjoy any of it?’

  “I do not want to talk with you about this! It is far too personal and embarrassing. Too intimate. I do not want you to know this about me, but I cannot not tell you. Always, I feel compelled to be completely honest with you, and you sense that about me.

  “‘Are you going to answer me?’ Your voice is steely, and I suddenly realize that I have not answered, even as I recall that I have agreed to obey you.

  “‘I…I believe I did enjoy it. Most of it.’

  “‘And did it hurt?’

  “‘Yes and no. But not really. I don’t know.’

  “‘Tell me about the first occasion you remember.’

  “As I begin to tell you my experience, my voice softens with embarrassment. Words struggle from me. I feel your hand rubbing my bottom. As I speak, your hand gradually gathers up my skirt at the back and lifts it higher and higher…

  “‘I was twelve years old, perhaps eleven. I do not recall if I was spanked prior to that time. There are images. Fleeting. Not many. Mostly, my parents ignored me. I spent much time alone, in my attic, for I was left to my own devices.

  No, I do not think I was spanked—not much anyway.’

  “While I talk, your hand continues lifting my skirt. I feel you grab handfuls of fabric slowly, your hand resting on my bottom, moving like a claw to clutch the fabric as the hem of my skirt rises to the back of my knees, up my thighs, up my derriere.

  “‘When I was that age, a Miss Evans came to live with us. She was my first governess, the first of many, governesses who followed a series of nannies. She was very old-fashioned, strict, and I was young and stubborn. We argued much of the time.’

  “I feel the fabric raised above my ass, and the back of my skirt being slid under the waistband of my skirt.

  “‘One day—perhaps a Saturday, for my parents were not at home—I made Miss Evans very angry on purpose. She was brushing her long black hair with a rosewood hairbrush with an oval back. She had often threatened to spank me, but never did, of course. I was very skilled at getting out of punishments. But I had long had fantasies of being spanked, as far back as I can remember. And that day, I wanted to provoke her so that she would spank me. I planned it out, you see.

  “‘I have no recollection of what I said, or what she said, but I was very good at manipulation from as early as I can remember—I’d always gotten my way—and I managed to infuriate her enough to chase me. I simply wanted to feel something intense, physical, sexual I suppose, although I don’t think I could have identified that then. However I taunted Miss Evans, drawing her upstairs. I ran into the front bedroom—not my own, but a guest room. Unfortunately, two maids were in there cleaning, for my parents expected guests that weekend, friends of theirs from the country who—’

  “‘Stick to the point!’

  “‘This was not what I desired—an audience. But I had already thrown myself face down onto the large four-poster. Miss Evans strode in, hair brush in hand, furious. I suppose I’d been a regular bitch with her. But I did not want other people watching. But I did want to be spanked. I was torn, you see, and the dilemma kept me there.

  “‘Miss Evans began paddling me on the bottom with the hairbrush. It was fairly hard. But the guilt and embarrassment and shame of the two maids—who had, of course, stopped their work to watch—seeing this… I was overwhelmed. I imagined it was so obvious that I wanted this paddling, that everybody could see it. Miss Evans only struck me three or four times on each cheek, and I rolled away and ran out of the room. I knew I could get away any time, and did, when it got to be too much. Not the physical pain, but the shame.’

  “Telling you this story mortifies for me. I have a need for this type of physical pain that travels back a long way in my history, and I have never told anyone this experience before. I do not know if you will judge me. I do not know if you will use this information against me, although I suspect you will. Somehow, in the telling, I feel a bit liberated, as though I am showing a very raw version of myself.

  “My skirt has been tucked away at the back, and you are now pulling down my woolen stockings to my knees. You move one down my thigh, then slide the other down my other thigh, the motion slow and easy. I now wear only bloomers, and the corset, which stops just above my bottom cheeks.

  “‘Tell me another experience,’ you say.

  “‘Real or imagined?’

  “‘Either.’

  “‘This one is more recent.’ I swallow hard. ‘I asked Sybil Vane to spank me.’

  “Your fingers slide along the lace at the lower edge of the fabric of my bloomers. You slip under the lacy band and run your fingers up and back, from my thigh toward my waist. As your hand moves up, the soft cotton rises, higher and higher, until my right cheek is exposed and the fabric frames the top of my cheek, then down the center of my buttock, resting in the crack.

  “‘And?’

  “‘And,’ I continue, ‘We discussed the matter. At length. Sybil did not warm to the idea. She felt it was not to her taste, but would attempt this, to make me happy. In truth, I believe she felt it was sordid, her spanking me, although she had no qualms about the reverse.’

  “‘We were visiting Brighton, for the weekend, staying in a divine little guest house that belongs to Lady Bracknell’s sister-in-law, you know, the Duchess who recently married—’

  “‘Stick to
the spanking!’

  “Your fingers have pulled the other leg of the bloomers up until the fabric now rests over my left cheek and down in the crack between my cheeks. I feel your hand wedging the fabric beneath the corset, to keep it secure.

  “I do not know if my bottom is trembling, but it should be. I feel lulled yet nervous. Excited. Fearful. I am revealing my secrets and you are revealing my ass. I know what you are leading up to. I do not know if I can take this or not. To be spanked is one thing, to be spanked by an object of desire is another. To be spanked by one I have loathed for so long, someone who now inspires feelings of a quite different nature…

  I can feel my lower lip tremble and my breathing turn ragged.

  “‘I begged Sybil to bind me—I had brought along scarves for the occasion. Sybil tied my hands together, but very loosely, so they were not really secure. It was disappointing. She lowered my bloomers, again at my request, and spanked me a little, not hard, with her hand. I knew she was not enjoying this, and I did not feel I could ask her to secure me better, or spank me harder. It had taken some time to convince her to do this, and I was fearful she would retreat.

  “‘My bottom tingled a tad. I felt akin to being ravenous and having someone reluctantly feed me one small morsel of a food that, in itself, is not filling but which, if one had more, well, one might be filled. But one would not have the opportunity to find out.

  “‘It was over very quickly—just a few quick smacks that I barely felt. The scarf about my hands was so loose it simply fell off.

  “‘We had a dinner engagement and left soon after. As I sat in the carriage, I felt a tad excited, but not greatly so. Enough, though, that I could begin to fantasize about what it would be like to be really spanked by someone with whom I was intimate. And then fucked. But I believed it would never happen.’

  “Both of my cheeks are exposed. I feel the air hitting my skin. Other than this, I am almost fully clothed, including boots. I feel extremely vulnerable, having just this one part of my anatomy exhibited before your eyes, available to your senses.