White Silk & I Belong to You

by Lizbeth Dusseau

“No, he won’t. I’ve made sure of that,” I lie well. He believes me, or at least seems to.

  “This is good. You made quick work of him, but then what you’re getting in return surpasses the mundane romanticism of a common love affair.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hasten to suggest that you actually want what I offer more than you want him?” He displays a surprising vulnerability with that question. But I refuse to give him the answer he wants to hear.

  The dinner ends almost immediately. Aman reaches between my thighs and hastily yanks the clamps from my labia. I smother my shrieks as each slip of skin floods with blood and the pain rushes outward, attacking all my senses. Once I settle, he unlocks the handcuff from the chair leg to set me free, although he attaches the second cuff to my left wrist. Teetering on the patent leather stilettos, I walk through the dining room like a common prisoner. My breasts with the attached nipple clamps and their silver chain jiggle noticeably between my arms as if the blouse wasn’t even there. Aman strides behind me, pushing me forward so that no eye can linger long on the stunning sight. Some will shake their heads in amazement. Others will savor the memory, but swear it was their eyes playing tricks—or the subtle dinning room lighting. But just as Aman so astutely explained to me, no one will raise an objection. And no one does.

  ***

  Aman takes me to his penthouse playroom where I serviced his army of friends and business associates several weeks before. However, instead of remaining in the large living room where I’d been bound inside the fountain, he leads me into a more intimate setting of torture.

  “This is my private entertainment room,” he announces as we walk through the door. “Few people have the opportunity to enjoy this space, I’m rather fond of keeping it a guarded secret.” He seems quite proud as he struts about the oval room enjoying a lavish mural of copulating bodies that has been painted above the four-foot high wainscoting and across the domed ceiling. It is really quite an amazing artistic effort, which took some painter many painstaking hours. Breasts and asses and naked cunts abound as an orgy of pleasure seems to float in a sepia haze about the room.

  Below the wainscoting, the walls are covered in burgundy velveteen. The normal furnishings in the room—a lounging settee, an overstuffed chair and a small side table are in an ornate, old European style, which lends a particularly inviting quality to the room. But, the feeling of welcome ends there, as the primary purpose for the room is threatening and grim.

  I immediately face an apparatus that looks basically like a chair, though it’s missing part of the seat. Instead of a plush velvet cushion, there are two padded slats that form a ‘V’, although the slats do not connect at the bottom of the ‘V’. Above the base of the chair is a straight narrow back and arms that would seem adjustable, or removable, as the situation requires. Rather than attaching to the bottom of the chair, the straight back attaches to the arms, which wing off to the side and are supported by sturdy struts. I realize immediately that the gap between the base and the bottom of the straight back is nearly eight inches, enough for the average woman’s round behind. It is designed for optimum accessibility.

  On the floor beneath ‘the chair’ sits a hand painted ceramic pot with a wide mouth—I can only assume its function.

  “Take a seat, Michelle. I’d like to see how the device fits.”

  Without the use of my hands, sitting down with my legs spread so wide is difficult. Aman raises the tight skirt enough so I can accomplish the feat, but he gives me no other assistance. He watches critically as I flounder a bit trying to adjust my thighs against the padded ‘V’. Once I finally settle, he smiles.

  “How appropriate for you. Displays all your natural qualities and functions. Be assured, this is a device expressly designed for optimum torture.” He’s almost giddy with excitement.

  I feel my own perverted excitement well in me, but it remains subdued by fear that attacks like a snarling dog.

  He removes the handcuffs and rests my forearms on the arms of the chair, wrapping them with lengths of thick rope and tying them with firm, unyielding knots. He likewise wraps my legs with rope, high at the thigh, the knees and the ankles, so I’m effectively bound to the device. The final piece of bondage is a four-inch high posture collar that fits snugly around my throat, raises my head high like a haughty bitch and attaches to the back of the straight slat behind my neck.

  Thus, I sit in my elegant sluttiness like a pinned insect.

  He starts the music, a slow, sultry drumbeat that seems to bounce off the walls. Then he struts around me with a cane in hand, eyeing me with an air of suspicion. I am suspicious, too. I follow his gait as far as my eyes can see him, but when he moves behind me, I feel my hands clutch the chair arms, and see my knuckles turn white with fear. Suddenly, Aman grabs a fistful of blonde hair and tugs. The beat of the drum goes on and my heart palpitates hotly. My open crotch starts to stir from the air that playfully dances about its supple, moist tissue. Then as Aman withdraws his hand from my hair, a tingling energy rains down through my spine all the way to my ass. The drumbeat gets deeper inside.

  The lights dim, while spotlights highlight the paintings on the walls. They come to life like moving pictures. The tease is mild, though it invades my body all the way to the bone.

  Aman crouches in front of me, taking his cane in hand to toy with my labia and clitoris, which he can barely see under my scrunched up skirt. It may seem like an ineffectual tease but the effect powerfully sweeps my body with want, transforming my hunger for food to a hunger for physical satiation that will not rest until it’s satisfied.

  Though I could cum in seconds, I fear that my satisfaction is a long way off. Aman will keep me hanging. It will be his pleasure to see me suffer from denial, from his hand quickly withdrawn, his instrument silenced just before my body explodes, his command withheld as he reappraises my desperate state. This is at the heart of his sadistic amusement.

  When he removes a knife from a small drawer in the elegant side table, tears puddle in my eyes and march right down my face. Panic grips my gut. His knife is nearly a foot long, with a thick, curved, pointed blade—eight inches of gleaming and polished steel.

  I clamp my eyes shut tight.

  When I feel the tip of the knife slightly pricking my chin, I freeze.

  “Open your eyes, Michelle,” he tells me.

  I do as I’m told, my head still straight, my eyes now straining to focus on the dreadful blade.

  “You think I’d hurt you?” Aman asks.

  “No, sir.”

  “I certainly could,” he says. “I could slit your throat and dispose of you easily.” He lets me think on that as he runs the pointed end across the underside of my neck to where it meets the collar. Then he slips it down to my sternum where it punctures my blouse. I’m afraid to breathe.

  “How beautiful the female is when fear surrounds her. Her ears perk, her eyes light like stars, her nostrils flare, her pores seem to open to sensation like at no other time.”

  He catches a tiny button with the tip of the knife and gives it a quick yank. The button flies to my side. Aman moves down from button to button, cutting with a flick of his wrist and the sharp steel. Flung about the room haphazardly, the buttons fall silent on the thick carpet. With my blouse nearly open, Aman hastens the process, tearing into the sheer fabric until it hangs on me in shreds. The nipple clamps bob annoyingly as they jerk back and forth with his erratic movement, while the chain dangles heavily between. The pressure expands, the ache builds and the drum beats on.

  With a snigger of merriment in his expression, Aman moves down to my crotch again, tickling my labia, my clit, and finally my asshole with the point of the knife. I worry that any second, he’ll slip and the pot beneath my snatch will collect blood, not urine—as I suspect its function to be. But in a ruthless move I don’t anticipate, he suddenly lunges upward with his arm and the curved knife rips my bunched skirt in two pieces that fall limply against my thighs.

 
; My shriek could curl hair, though it ends as quickly as that swipe of Aman’s knife. He continues to cut away at my clothes until they lie in pieces around the chair and I’m naked. While his delight rides about the room in waves, my fear does the same and the drumbeat just increases feeling of dread. This fear must breed my lust, since at any second I know my cumming is just a small touch away from igniting.

  I know he’ll deny the climax that waits in me ready to explode. It’s not yet time. Not until his sadistic urges have been fully satisfied and my pleasure is an afterthought.

  In midstream, Aman changes the game, putting his knife back in the drawer and pulling out more rope. I cannot imagine myself more bound than I am now, but then, I am not the master of sadomasochistic parlor games.

  He unlocks the collar from the slat behind me, which allows my torso to bend forward. I find some immediate relief in that freedom, but it’s all for another evil end. He circles the thick white rope above my breasts twice, then circles again underneath. He follows by joining the upper and lower ropes between my tits and on either side, then binds the breasts themselves until they stick out like pointed plum-colored bee-hives. I look ridiculous. But then there is something strangely erotic in this disfiguring bondage. It turns my crotch into a flaming, pulsing bed of desiring, while at the same time, turning my owner’s cock into a hefty erection that now tents his pants so obviously that I can’t take my eyes off his crotch.

  He comes at me for more, with glass suction cups that fit snugly over my nipples. The clever devices sucks the air from the bell-shaped glass, which expands my captured flesh to twice its normal size. My energy rises and I’m about to panic. I gaze down at them in terrified wonder.

  “Easy now, Michelle, you can do this. Breathe.”

  I feel faint, though the pain is beyond me.

  “Breathe,” Aman commands in a low sonorous voice. His hands are on my shoulders, pushing me back against the slat, his eyes piercing mine. “Look at me and breathe…” His tone is calm and reassuring. “Breathe with me.”

  I follow in line like a conforming soldier, breathing with every measured breath he breathes, with every beat of the drum, enduring the tension as the suction cups increase their pull. I pant with an open mouth, my eyes glass over, blurring a bit, but still fixated on my owner. My tits become two throbbing furnaces of pain, that transform in me and rush down to my place of passion with a swell of energy. My thighs, my belly, my cunt throbs in unison.

  “That’s it. You’re doing fine. Just a little bit more.” I falter and he shakes me. “Work through it, slut. You will not disappoint me.”

  I breathe again to the rhythm of his hot breath and the sound that permeates the room. The aromas of his meal… the crab, the steak, the coffee, fill me, unite me with.

  He smiles and backs off.

  Relief washes over me as Aman releases the cups and the acute tension in my nipples dwindles away.

  But he doesn’t let me rest. His fingers tug at my distended flesh, twisting my nipples cruelly, as his face twists into a look of sadistic satisfaction. I am mewling softly, while his abrasive methods only become more vicious. Then gazing down I see how raw my nipples have become. Still, he doesn’t stop. It’s clothespins next, two at the ends of my buds and then more that circle close, digging into the tender flesh of the pink areole. Each feels insignificant alone, but together the impact is devastating to my sanity. I rock back and forth, whimpering like a wounded pup. Aman doesn’t care. He’s in his zone, his Dom space, experiencing the joy of causing me pain.

  Is that not my purpose, to please him? In his mind, certainly. The fact that I am not pleased, pleases him most. This is not for my pleasure but his, he will tell me. I am his victim, the female of choice he will use as his play-toy, his whipping post, his subservient pet. The sadistic thrill he realizes with me is limitless.

  My breasts stick out like pincushions—there must be a dozen clothespins on either tit before he stops. I’m about to lose all control. When I see the thread that runs from one pin to the next, I begin to babble some nonsense that neither of us understands—filled with ‘please, please, not that!’, ‘No, God help me, I can’t take more…’. I’m practically delirious, thrashing back and forth, which only makes the pain more acute.

  He slaps my face and the sudden pain in my cheek grabs my attention quickly.

  I come-to, feeling nothing but my stinging face. He slaps the other cheek for good measure, so both burn. “Stop your babbling!” he barks as he slaps my cheek again. “You understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” I strain to say.

  He slaps me again. “Say it again.”

  Yes, sir!”

  “And again.” Another slap.

  “YES, SIR!” I’m practically shouting.

  He stops.

  I watch as he lifts the end of the connecting thread. Not even a smirk on his face, he’s all serious, grimly seething. His crotch seems to explode on me, that member still tucked inside his suit packs one hellava punch. I imagine him fucking my face, a jet of cum covering my mouth.

  I watch his hand, this wait a gruesome exercise in fear. Time seems to linger in this moment, expanding it beyond its borders. Everything that happens next transpires in slow-motion as if we rise above the room and reality. I see his hand in front of his chest, his fist clutching the heavy thread, and then the sudden sweep of his arm in an arc as he yanks the connected pins from my breasts.

  I must have passed out from the pain. I next remember the sickening smell of pungent perfume—smelling salts. As I revive, I see that I’m still bound with rope to my owner’s torture chair and that at least half of the clothespins still surround my nipples and cover the tip. I must have been out just seconds.

  He throws cold water on my face to revive me more.

  “Oh, you are good, my little painslut.” He’s smiling now. “Too bad; I’m not done.” He pauses as he struts in front of me, “Too bad for you, but not for me.”

  He stops to flick the tips of the clothespins and I wince. Parts of me are numb now. I don’t know what I feel in any specific way, except the unrelenting and determined pain. Then, like a god finally having mercy on my plight, my endorphins start to rush.

  I know I am delirious as Aman starts to pluck the remaining clothespins from my breasts. Each disturbs the tentative rush of pleasure, but the endorphin high quickly returns, along with the comforting ache. I don’t even realize when they are all removed. My eyes are closed, my mind adrift.

  Aman’s hand strokes my pussy down below and a trickle of juice pours over his hand. I start to cum and he withdraws.

  “Suck it!” he next commands and I open my eyes seeing his hefty erection greeting me. “Suck it!”

  I lean down enough to take his member in my mouth. My jaw works hard in a steady rhythm. I feel the force of his passion rising inside his muscled thighs, shooting from the center of his groin toward me, first with fiery sexual heat alone, and then with the ejaculate landing in my mouth, across my face and when he pushes me back against my tortured breasts.

  “Ah, what a bitch you are,” he says scornfully, as if he hates me.

  I don’t understand why. But I’m too exhausted to even think.

  The spent Aman musters enough energy to end the session with the last of his favorite devices—a portable fucking machine that he slides in under my exposed crotch. Two fake pricks stand like sentinels at the top of the contraption, and with a little maneuvering are lodged an inch or two inside the openings of my cunt and ass. He turns the power on and the surging dildos thrust upward, driving to my cervix and deep into my rectum.

  Aman stands. “There, you thought I’d forgotten your pleasure.”

  The surging makes powerful demands on my body, but I’m cumming within a minute, body thrashing like ragdoll in captivity. The walls of my inner body seem to expand and I feel a wail of anguish rise from my depths and pour out through the room. The fucking continues through several climaxes. Each one is hard and powerful, but so dem
anding of my wasted body that I have no will to continue after the third one. And yet, the machine will not stop until Aman decides to turn it off—turn me off as if I am a marionette; or, better yet, just an extension of this cruel contraption. He strides about the room, watching my jerking body with a critical eye. He delights in my torment. Is there such a thing as too much pleasure? I wonder as I come down from one erratic high and another builds. Perhaps if a man of flesh and blood were able to work my sex in the same ruthless way, I might respond differently. But there are no hands, no lips, no scent of a man in heat, no real cock to impale me and this cumming is just another method to demean and dehumanize me, to strip my soul away and leave me physically satiated but still an empty vessel, wasted but emotionless.

  Suddenly the machine stops and the dildos slip from my body. For seconds after, my body jerks as if I were still impaled, then I finally slump back into the confining bondage. Aman stands at the door, viewing me with a blank expression. Then the lights go out and he closes the door behind him, leaving me in the darkness, alone.

  Chapter Eight

  When I arrive in New York, I go straight to the hotel, looking for Daniel Broc. Of course, he’s out. I half expected that, but I didn’t anticipate the hotel clerk telling me that he leaves for days at a time and that his schedule is too erratic to predict. Since he left the day before, and gave the hotel no indication of when he’d return, I wonder if this jaunt is a waste of time.

  I cool my heels in the lobby for an hour, shop the streets nearby for another hour, then return to the hotel with the hope that Daniel will miraculously appear. When I find he’s still out, I weigh my options: go home, or check in and, like a stalking cat, lie in wait for his return. I mull my decision for several minutes slumped in a comfy reading chair in the lobby. A fountain nearby softly trickles with a steady stream of running water, and above me a canopy of potted palms creates a peaceful cocoon. I’m so exhausted, I think I could just lie back and nap for a while if it weren’t for the dreadful fear gathering inside me. Just for a few minutes, I reason as my heavy eyelids slowly close.