“Oh, God no, Sunny… how could you?”
“Shelly, stop!” Her anger suddenly ignites. “I’m not going to have you make the incident something that it wasn’t. I really appreciate your coming to my rescue, but I never should have left the warehouse. If I’d just been patient for five more minutes, Sir would have been there, and I wouldn’t have bothered you. You’re not going to talk me out of what I love. I can’t quit. I won’t quit, and there’s absolutely no reason why I should.”
“Okay, okay, don’t be so defensive. Just remember how Steven and I found you.”
“Well, that’s regrettable.” Her face suddenly changes, from anger to a look of pleading desperation. “Please, Shel, let’s just forget it. Please?”
My heart sinks; I’ve lost this round. All she’ll do is rationalize any argument I make.
“Okay. But do be careful. I’m not as convinced of this master as you are.”
“But you will be. I’ll introduce you soon. You’ll realize that I have no reason to worry.”
As for my dilemma regarding Steven, I’m biding my time, choosing to wait. I could have easily ended things the night we rescued Sunny, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him it’s over. I’m holding out that our relationship will slowly slip away without my overt effort, or perhaps in spite of my efforts to hold on. Certainly, I’m giving him mixed messages, which won’t set well with a man of decisiveness and clarity.
The weekend arrives and with the documentary almost done; I’d like to spend a night with Steven—I miss him so much. It’s late on Friday afternoon and I’m about to leave the studio, but just as I reach the door the phone rings and I make an about face.
“Ah, my sweet, I found you.”
Aman.
A mixed feeling akin to relief and fear wrapped in one neat package sets my body on edge. I know what this means and everything in me is alive and raw. I know that the terrific arousal I squelched while attending to Sunny can at last be released. Already, without Aman saying another word, my body feels as if it’s lifting off the planet with excitement. This makes me wonder if I really want Steven that much.
“You’ll meet me in Tyler, at the Steak House on the Wharf. There will be a package at your apartment; the clothes I want you to wear. I’ll see you at eight. For the rest of the weekend you’re mine. Questions?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good. You can tell me when we meet how you’ve kissed off your boyfriend.”
The phone clicks off and I set the receiver back in its cradle, sighing with a heavy heart.
Steven won’t know any different, I rationalize. Tonight was to be my surprise. Why I even planned the night when I know I have to break it off, I don’t understand, unless I was simply testing reality, thinking that perhaps Aman’s intrusion in my life was really just a dream… or that he would simply not return for me. That was my hope; I know better now.
Knowing that Steven may get suspicious if I don’t see him, I give him a phone to explain myself, fibbing freely, with a story of how at the last minute, I need to re-shoot part of the documentary so I’ll be tied up all weekend—literally I will be. “I’m bummed,” I groan unhappily.
“So, what can you do about it?” he asks. I sense him shrug as he accepts my excuse, though I detect the disappointment in his voice that only makes me long for his embracing arms.
“Maybe next week,” I say half-heartedly.
“Yes, absolutely next week, or I’ll think you’re trying to get rid of me,” he says with a laugh.
He’d kidding, but perhaps this is intuition speaking. Reality hits hard. Yes! I have to end my life with Steven as soon as the weekend’s over or I’ll die walking this tightrope of deceit and heavy regret.
***
Though the clothes Aman had sent to my apartment shouldn’t surprise me, I’m still in awe. Soon as I open the bulky package, I get a clear picture of my owner’s plans for this night. The cream-colored nylon blouse is nearly transparent—no embroidery over the breasts, no subtle print, just a diaphanous fabric that will drape my torso and leave little hidden. Small pearl buttons allow easy access to my breasts. I know Aman plans for me to go braless since he furnished no bra. The effect will be startling.
Just under the blouse inside the package is a navy blue gabardine skirt that contains enough Lycra to make it cling tightly to the hips. I don’t have to put it on to know that its snug fit will render me the sex object my owner expects of me. He’s also furnished thigh-high lace topped stockings—no panties—and black patent-leather stilettos, with what I guess are five-inch heels. It’s a ‘fuck-me’ outfit, simple, classic but exceedingly bold for restaurant attire. Regardless of my reservations, I have no choice but to follow his orders or risk punishment I’d rather not endure. Thankfully, an unbidden but naughty thrill begins to rise, as I think of the sexual statement he’ll make of me tonight.
The Steak House on the Wharf in Tyler. I mull the location of this tryst and wonder how I’ll handle the exhibition. It’s been a long time since I was so blatantly exposed. I’ll be lucky to survive this night without turning into a mass of quivering jelly. Already my thighs are warm from the arousal; that warmth glides up my skin to tickle my cunt.
I dress with great care, making sure to re-apply my make-up, a little heavier than normal, and pouf my hair with hairspray so it looks seductive not sedate. Might as well go all the way in this public demonstration. I should anticipate that like most Dominant men, Aman intends to define my look to suit his pleasure. I anticipate more such nights, when I grace Aman’s arm looking like a high priced call girl. At least a call girl would extract a hefty price from her john. I get nothing from this arrangement but hard, rough sex and, hopefully, the safety of those I care about.
After taking one last glance in the mirror, I grab a lightweight coat to cover my outfit and dash out the door. I’ll have to speed to get to Tyler by eight sharp and I don’t dare be late.
It’s just my luck that Aman is waiting for me at the door to the Steak House when I pull up to the front. He pays for valet parking, then helps me off with the coat as we enter the restaurant. I’m giddy with embarrassment, but try to maintain some poise, as he takes my arm and escorts me to the far end of the dining room and to our table. Dozens of eyes linger on my displayed breasts, which gently sway behind the fabric of the transparent blouse. My areoles are pink and thus remain a little less obvious that darker ones would. At the same time, the startled, sometimes lurid glances I receive have their effect. By the time I reach our table, the exhibition has turned that soft pink skin into hard knots of purple flesh that poke right through the blouse. I fight to contain my embarrassment, trying to be proud, not ashamed, of what I am this night.
I probably pull off the feat with reasonable aplomb, but can’t help sighing in relief when I’m finally sitting safely in my chair. My back’s to the room and Aman sits close on my right side—as if we’re lovers.
“You look appropriate for the hour,” Aman says once we’re settled. These are his first words to me.
“I hope I please you,” I bow my head submissively.
He only nods. “Give me your hand.”
“I offer him my right hand and he immediately clamps a metal handcuff around my wrist. He snaps the other cuff to the front right leg of my chair. The chain connecting the two cuffs is not more than eight inches, which makes it impossible for me to raise my hand higher than my thigh, thus it rests uselessly in my lap.
“And park your bare ass on the chair,” he orders.
I should have expected as much, even with this tight skirt. But to attain the required posture takes a good deal of wiggling about, since I have only one hand to help me with the task. He’s chosen chairs with seats that rise high on either side to hide my exposed bottom, but that’s hardly much consolation. I’m sure that any of the wait staff will be able to see my bunched-up skirt riding high around my middle. I have more reason to blush.
“You’ve done this before?” he ask
s.
“Not really, or at least not in such a public place. You know yourself what I was trained for.”
“Indeed. You were trained to submit. And now it’s time to test how much of that knowledge you’ve retained. I’d suggest that any feminist arrogance that may have crept into your consciousness should be eradicated. You’ll be tested hard. I expect much. Now spread your legs.” His cold command sends a lightning bolt of sensation through my body.
I do as I’m told, opening my crotch, which is, thankfully, under the tablecloth and mostly hidden from sight. Aman scoots even closer, so he can easily reach between my thighs and fondle the soft warmth of my sex. He does so briefly, discovering how wet I’ve become. I can’t hide who I am even if I try.
He entertains a brief smirk, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out several items that he places on the table. By then, our waiter arrives to take our order. Aman rattles off his choices, while the curious, but very polite, young man glances at the strange objects lying in plain sight.
“You recognize anything?” Aman asks him when he sees the young man staring.
“I really don’t know,” he says, though there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye that says he’s lying.
“This female with me is my property,” Aman explains.
A spark of thrill lights the fellow’s face. “Really?”
“Indeed. I use her body in ways that make some people cringe. But then, such use is well within my rights as her owner.” I don’t know why he says these things except to embarrass me.
The waiter is obviously intrigued with the idea and I fear what more Aman will tell him.
“Like some kind of slave?” the man suggests.
“Tell him,” Aman turns to me with the order.
I gaze up, but not quite look the waiter in the eye. I can feel a hot blush rise on my neck and move rapidly toward my face. “I belong to him,” I say. “I accept what he does to me because it gives him pleasure.” I have no idea if this is what Aman wants me to say, but it seems to suffice.
He smiles and turns back to the flushed young man, “So, you’ll be placing our order now?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” he answers, and he abruptly leaves.
Alone again, Aman continues with his tests, reaching in between my spread thighs and affixing clamps to my plump labia. The first clamps hardly hurt, but I know they have a firm grip on my flesh and will not easily come off. He attaches at least eight, four on each side of my cunt in a cluster of small clamps that hold my sex in a unique form of bondage. The entire area throbs.
“You may close your legs,” he says when he’s finished.
That allowance is no gift. The more I close my legs together, the more the clamps become uncomfortable as the ends cut into the soft flesh of my thighs and the metal tightens down with any move I make. I grimace as threads of pain make any position difficult to manage.
“Hide your distress. Breathe through your pain,” Aman counsels. “I’ve hardly started.”
I sense that fact and do my best to follow his orders. At least for a moment, the raw pain subsides, replaced by a dull ache.
We eat a delicious crab cake—or, more accurately, Aman eats the crab cake and feeds me one bite. I realize as soon as the crab hits my palate that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I was too busy for lunch and am suddenly famished.
Between the appetizer and salad, Aman opens my blouse with surprising ease, undoing the tiny buttons until the fabric falls to either side and exposes my naked breasts. Thankfully, the lights are low and with my back to the room few will see. Still, I shudder as I realize the depths of my submission and what disgraceful behavior it demands of me. What if the waiter were to return now? I worry.
I can only assume that Aman has an explicit purpose for this risky act, which will become another source of pain and embarrassment. My hunch is immediately confirmed as he plucks from his coat a pair of nipple clamps that are joined with a chain of half-inch lengths. He spends several seconds with each nipple, drawing it out and twisting the small bud. I breathe deep again to avoid showing any distress and calling attention to this display. By the time Aman finishes the torture, my nipples are firm tight knots and properly prepared. He easily slips the clamps over the buds and tightens the teeth down so they won’t budge. He then re-buttons my blouse, looking quite pleased as he watches the shiny chain jiggling inside the thin fabric.
I’m a swirl of emotions. Panic, dread, fear, shame, triumph and surrender all share a place inside my queasy belly.
“Your eyes give you away, slave,” Aman notes my distress. “You resist. You clench in fear.”
“Of course, I do,” I blurt out, perhaps unwisely, but the wellspring of feeling that suddenly rises to the surface can’t be stopped. My eyes burn hot, I’m almost in tears. “These are not commonly accepted behaviors in my world.”
“But they are in mine.”
“But our worlds are different.” I lean forward persuasively and both my chest and crotch feel a significant jolt of pain.
“Indeed,” he answers. “And in this case, our worlds collide. But trust me, whatever I do to you, because you comply willingly will be tolerated—even in your world. You have a civil society here. Many will look the other way. Some will gawk. Others look down their noses in disgust. But no one will come to your rescue because you’ll wisely, submissively, allow what I do with a grateful heart. This exhibition pleases me, your submission arouses my sexual fervor, and when I’m pleased and aroused, I no longer think of sadistically cutting down your friends. I only think of your debasement.” He pauses, so his message sinks in. “Is all that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I can barely speak.
“So,” he sits back in his chair admiring me while waiting for his salad, “your friend Sunny is coming along just fine.”
I know my eyes flare with anger as soon as he says her name. And he’s admitting this to my face!
“You said you’d leave my friends alone!”
“Well…” he drawls, “there are exceptions and Sunny is the one.”
“Please, please don’t! I thought that was the deal. I cooperate, you stay away from those I care about.” My passion falls around me, shed like tears, even though I know he won’t understand or care.
He sits back haughtily, perhaps delighting in my distress. “But she was so ripe. Fell right into my schemes, perfectly, Miss Monroe. I couldn’t contain the urge.”
Exactly what I fear.
“She’ll make a first class slave. I’d suggest you not count on her being your assistant much longer.”
My entire body quakes. “And why is that?”
“There is a training facility she’ll need to visit as soon as I have time to take her.”
“No, you can’t!” my voice rises and Aman’s eyes turn vicious.
I’m warned by his ferocity alone and back down taking a deep breath.
He backs down as well, his lip curling into a smarmy smile. “There. You see I do exercise restraint in accord with your civil customs.” His dark eyes narrow, his brow knits low. “Under any other circumstances, I would have slapped your face. And trust me, another outburst like that last one, I won’t care whose company we’re in. Your cheeks will burn red from more than that lovely blush.”
“I am sorry, sir,” I bow and bite my lip, “but I just thought my agreement was…” I’m shaking badly.
“Was what? Hands off? I don’t believe I ever said that in so many words. You really should know better, Michelle. I take what I want; simple as that.” He stops when his salad arrives, then with a lighter tone of voice, continues, “Don’t worry. Sunny will be treated well. She’ll have the life she wants and what suits our needs. There’s nothing to get in a snit about; she’s as natural for submission as you were.”
I flash back to Sunny bound hand and foot, struggling to the car from the shadowy warehouse, her mop of red hair tousled and sexy. I shouldn’t worry?
Aman reads my mind. “You’re thinking o
f your friend the night she called you to rescue her. Yes, I know all about it. Your intervention changed our plans, but there’s no real harm done. The little slut was more daring than we thought.”
“What?”
“Yes, she was deliberately left in the warehouse, just to see what she’d do. Who would have guessed that she’d find a way out, let alone find a phone to call you, and the means to do that with her hands bound?”
“Then she wasn’t just abandoned?”
“Oh, she was very much abandoned. But the abandonment was deliberate. We left her for the night to suffer in that warehouse, alone, with all her fears haunting her. It would have been quite intense. By the time we freed her the next morning, she would be well on her way to the kind of surrender we require. Her desperation and gratitude would be a sight to behold. Sunny, however, had some spunk left, and a bad latch on the door allowed her to escape—they’ll be someone paying for that oversight. As far as Sunny goes, we’ll simply have to find another time and means to give her the same experience. It won’t take much. You can count on that. But, I’d suggest that you wisely not intervene again; that would only damage you.”
He eats his salad while I let this new information sink in. Then while Aman eats his entrée, occasionally offering me a few bites of steak and potatoes, he broaches the next item of business.
“Your Mr. Vandenberg. . . I assume he’s finally out of the picture?”
I’m almost surprised by the question. I figured that he knew about Steven’s part in Sunny’s rescue. Perhaps not.
“Yes,” I boldly say. In the same instant, I feel as if the blade of a knife has cut a path inside my gut. But isn’t this the truth? Steven must be gone after this weekend. This is no game my owner plays and I can’t allow his getting hurt.
“And he will not be trying to insinuate himself into your life?”
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 23