by Ashe Barker
My body is moistening, his finger gently sliding in and out, my juices starting to flow in earnest now.
“I’m thinking you like this, little sub. Is that right?”
I nod then drop my head back as he continues to stroke me, adding a second finger to stretch me a little farther.
“Do you want me to stop?” His fingers go still, deep inside me but not moving now.
I shake my head, use my inner muscles to squeeze around him. Desperate, I want him to move, to stroke me, to give me the friction I suddenly require more than oxygen.
“Ah, that feels so good. And when you squeeze around me like that, whether it’s my fingers inside you like now, or my cock later, that’s another signal. That’s you telling me, ‘this is good, I like this, I want more of this’. Yeah? Does that make sense?”
I dip my head in understanding, but he hasn’t finished yet.
“Can you make this sound?” He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, the sort of sound you might use for calling a dog over.
I nod, of course I can make that sound.
“Do it, let me hear it.”
I click for him, and he drops another light kiss onto my mouth. “Not quite without vocal sounds then. That’s your safe signal for this, while your hands are tied. If you need me to stop, or slow down, you click like that. I’ll hear you, and I’ll stop, check with you what you need, what you want to have happen. And if you want to stop, we will. So, are you okay still?”
I can manage a hearty whistle, but I never before considered clicking my tongue as a way of signaling. As I bow my head again, I admire his ingenuity. I’m not sure if he’s making it up as he goes along or if he pre-planned all this, but it seems this inventive Dom has an answer for everything, a way of dealing with all my issues and problems. Angela was spot on in her recommendation. He was the right Dom to ask to train me. He could help me, he already has.
He takes my face between his palms. “I told you, upstairs, that I’d never lay a hand on you unless you had your safe words ready.” His voice is low, sexy, sensual. And very firm as he continues. “You’ll always be able to take back control whenever you want to. But submission, real submission, is when you choose not to, when you let your Dom have the power, and keep it, when you let your Dom do whatever he wants to with you, with your body, because that’s the way you want it. Because it arouses you, excites you, fulfils you, because you want to please your Dom, and you trust him to always take care of you.”
He stops, as though waiting for me to take that in, to assimilate this new thinking, re-align my beliefs and attitudes, my assumptions and pre-conceptions. Then, presumably when he thinks I’ve had enough time to get my head around it, he continues, “So, ready to play?”
I nod once more and wait. Nicholas steps away, and I’m lost without his close presence, bereft almost. I can hear his voice, low, nearby, and someone else answering. Frank? Then Nicholas is back, his hands on me once more, molding and squeezing my breasts. I let my head drop backwards, enjoying the sensation, even as he increases the pressure, lifting and squeezing, pressing my breasts together, running his thumbs across my nipples. My breathing hitches. I’m gasping, sighing—he must know how he’s affecting me.
“Is this good? No clicking yet?” Sure enough, his voice is in my ear, checking.
I respond by arching my back, thrusting my breasts farther out, into his hands. He kisses my mouth again before dropping his head farther, taking my left nipple between his lips. He runs his tongue roughly around it before sucking, hard. He presses the engorged bud against the roof of his mouth and the exquisite pressure is beyond anything I have ever felt. The pleasure is almost too much, too intense. I’m panting, rigid as he continues to work my distended tip mercilessly.
Then when I’m sure I must need to click, I can’t bear any more, he lets me go. Only to latch his mouth around my right nipple and repeat the performance. This time though his fingers are rolling my already erect left nipple, keeping the pressure on, building the sensation there as he brings the right tip up to the same heightened level of intense sensitivity. Moisture is pooling between my legs, my wetness increasing with every tug on my buds. My legs are free to move, and I try vainly to squeeze them harder together, somehow, trying to create the friction there, to sooth the throbbing in my clit.
Nicholas realizes what I’m about and puts a stop to it. “Oh no, little sub. You haven’t earned that yet. Your clit can wait its turn. Until I’m good and ready.” He releases my sore tip and crouches at my feet, quickly securing my ankles so that my legs are spread wide.
Then he stands, and although I can’t see him and he’s no longer touching me, I can feel his presence, his eyes all over me, admiring me, admiring his handiwork.
“Have you worked out where you are?”
I think I might be on the St. Andrew’s Cross, but I’m not certain. I shake my head slowly.
“Think. Think harder. You do know, don’t you? And you know what you’ve seen happening here, to other subs. Don’t you, Miss Stone?”
I start to shake my head again, but he takes my face in his hands, holds me still. “Now, Freya, you know how things can get if you’re not entirely honest with me. No games, no evading. Now, I’ll ask you again. Do you know where you are?”
I nod.
His closeness is comforting, reassuring, despite the veiled threat of a moment ago. “The St Andrew’s Cross, right?” His voice is low and sexy, and right by my ear.
I nod again.
“And you have your back to the wall, so you can be sure, this time at least, I don’t intend to whip you. At least, not a punishment whipping. This is all about arousal, sweetheart. And it starts here, with these.”
He takes both my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling at first but quickly increasing the pressure, squeezing and pulling until I’m gasping under the onslaught of pain. “I’m going to do this until you click. I want to know how much you can take. When it becomes unbearable, let me know. Okay?”
I grind my teeth, stiffen against the straps holding me in place as he relentlessly twists, squeezes and pulls my nipples. And after a few seconds he has what he wants. I click my tongue, and he stops increasing the torment. He doesn’t release me though, just holds me in that place between intense pain and—what—exquisite pleasure dancing just out of reach. Confused, maybe just a little frightened, I chew my bottom lip as I’m held there, helpless in his hands, waiting to feel whatever comes next.
I almost sigh with relief as he lets go of my nipples, only to jerk back to full, alert awareness as something bites down hard, first on my left nipple then on the right. It’s not sharp, but it’s tight and mean and the grip is vicious. A weight is tugging at me, dragging my nipples downwards. I try to move, but the pressure increases, the heavy object swinging, pulling, tormenting me. It’s awful, frankly awful. I can’t bear it.
“Don’t struggle, just let your nipples adjust. It feels strange now, but you can do this.” His voice is gentle, so are his hands as he holds and shapes my breasts, taking the weights suspended from them to allow me a brief respite before allowing them to fall free again. He repeats the action, each time the shock is a little less, the pain just slightly more bearable.
I know he’s clamped my nipples, I’ve watched this sort of scene often enough. But I’ve never envied the subs playing, this is not what I would have chosen as my initiation into the delights of the dungeon.
I shiver as the tip of Nicholas’ tongue lightly flicks the very tip of my left nipple, the small part protruding beyond the vicious clamp. The blood supply trapped there makes me super-sensitive and the electric tingle shoots straight to my clit. He repeats the action, this time on my right nipple, and I jerk involuntarily. The sensation is truly exquisite, I’m able to experience the pleasure beyond the pain. I’m beginning to fully understand the point of this. Now I know for myself what those other submissives I’ve watched were feeling. But this is not second hand pleasure, vicarious fun, t
he joy of voyeurism. I’m sure I’ll never tire of watching others, I do love that, but I always wanted to participate too. I felt excluded, but no more.
My Dom is a Master, he knows exactly what he’s doing. The blindfold concentrates my senses. No sight, but all my other faculties are sharply honed. Touch, hearing—all sensation centered on my breasts, my nipples and that crackling link to my inner core.
He’s made no move to touch me other than at my breasts. But I know that even the slightest attention to my clit at this point would send me into orbit. And I need that. I need to tell him, I need him to help me. I’m thrashing around on the cross, as far as I’m able, held securely in place by the straps at my wrists and ankles. Nicholas is not touching me now, my own movements are causing the weights suspended from the nipple clamps to swing and pull on me, each movement increasing my torment. Then he’s back, the backs of his knuckles now trailing from my throat, down between my breasts to my navel. And there he stops. I’m grinding my teeth in frustration now, and he knows it. He damned well knows everything that’s going on in my aroused, tingling body and he’s playing me like a violin.
“I have more planned for you, but you’re not much use to me like this. Too wound up, too unstable, too volatile. So I’m going to let you come, just once, quick and hard to release the pressure. Then we start again, and next time you’ll control yourself better. Won’t you, little sub?” His tone is cool and clipped, with maybe a hint of displeasure there.
I don’t want him angry, disappointed in me. But I can’t bear this, I need to climax so much. I’ll promise anything. I bob my head quickly to signal what I want, what I need so desperately, the only means of communication left to me.
And he’s quick to respond. He uses both hands, parts my labia quickly and efficiently and slides his fingers between to circle my pussy swiftly before plunging two fingers deep inside me. I jerk, thrust my hips out, begging silently for more. And he obliges, gives me more. His thumb is on my clit, he rubs once, twice, and on the third stroke I detonate. I throw my head back, my mouth open in a silent scream of utter delight and satisfaction as I experience the most powerful, most explosive, most shattering orgasm I have ever had. Up to now my best orgasms have, in fairness, been solo efforts, but this is everything I’ve ever managed to achieve for myself and much more. This climax is like everything I’ve felt before, now rolled up into one explosive burst of energy pulsing through me. It hits me in seconds, and it’s over almost as quickly as it began. Nicholas wastes no time, forcing my response, pushing me hard over the edge and catching me quickly on the other side.
“That’s good, but enough for now. Now, you concentrate on what I’m doing to you, on what I’m saying to you, and you control yourself. You won’t come again until I give you permission to. Is that clear, girl?”
I sag against my restraints and he immediately jerks me back to the here and now by tugging hard on both weights. “Pay attention. And answer me. Now.”
Startled, unnerved by his sudden change in mood, I shrink away from him.
“Don’t cower.” He doesn’t take kindly to my response. “You know better than that. Remember, you’re in control here. You can always click if you want me to stop. Now, answer my question—do you understand your instructions? You are not to come again without my permission. Is. That. Clear?”
I concentrate on breathing deeply, evenly, as I nod my response. Yes, matters are perfectly clear to me. I’m suspended, naked, from a St. Andrew’s Cross, my nipples brutally clamped. I’ve just been treated to the best orgasm ever which has suddenly transformed into some sort of crime I don’t understand, but if I do it again I’ll be punished. He has something else planned for me, something more, I don’t know what that is, but it appears that if I have the temerity to like it too much and come again, he’ll punish me for that. I’m scared, confused, constantly off balance and apprehensive about what comes next.
And Nicholas Hardisty knows all of this. He’s inside my head. Again. This, no doubt, is what he meant by a mind-fuck.
His voice is low as he murmurs into my ear, “Welcome to submission, little Freya. Is it all you hoped for?”
Chapter Four
Bewildered, I shake my head. Is that the right answer? I have no idea what to do, how to respond. Thankfully, Nicholas Hardisty lets it go at that, kindly not pressing me. In fairness, the most I could possibly communicate to him is my all-stop signal, and neither of us wants that. Yet.
He steps away. Or I think he does. I can’t hear him breathing close by me, and my hearing is very acute. Most of the time. I wait, conscious that he’s left me here, on display, totally helpless. And until he comes back there’s absolutely nothing I can do to change anything. The sense of freedom, of liberation, is extreme. Heady. Exhilarating. This is the buzz of submission for me, the handing over control, letting someone else hold the responsibility while I fly. And somehow, if he chooses to, I know Nicholas Hardisty can make me soar.
“You look happy, little sub. Something amusing you?” His low, sexy voice is in my ear, murmuring.
He’s close by, and I never heard him approaching. I gasp as he nudges the weights suspended from my nipples, causing a tingle of pleasure/pain to crackle through me, from my tortured breasts to my groin, a sizzling triangle of perfect agony. I’m groaning inside, though he hears nothing.
“Are you liking this, little sub? Do you want more or shall we move on to the next phase?” Despite my lack of sounds he knows. He sees something which gives him the clues he needs.
I’m wondering how to tell him I want to move on when, with no warning or preamble, he slides two long fingers swiftly into me, filling my pussy with his brisk, skilled presence. A third quickly joins the first two, and I’m delightfully stretched, clinging around him, the friction as he twists his hand to caress my inner walls gloriously satisfying.
“Squeeze me, once if you want to stay with this a bit longer, and twice if you want to try out what’s coming next.”
I change my mind, and squeeze once. He chuckles, treats me to a swift finger fuck, just two or three plunges before pulling his fingers out. “Greedy little sub, I told you not to even think about coming again until I give you permission. And you are thinking about it, aren’t you?”
Lost, confused, I shake my head quickly, the gesture more one of bewilderment than denial.
“Was that a ‘no’? Are you denying it, little sub? Because here tells a different story.” His fingers slide back into me, their entry easy, slick with my wetness.
The juicy, wet sound of his fingers working me is unmistakable evidence of my intense arousal. He withdraws his hand and lifts it to cup my chin. My own juices are now spread across my face, the wetness cooling my cheek in the warm room. He holds me still and brushes his lips over mine.
“So scared, so confused. Do you still trust me, sexy, randy little sub?”
I gulp, chew my bottom lip—a nervous habit of mine, one he’s no doubt noting—and I nod. Despite it all, despite how nervous he makes me feel, how much he intimidates me, I do trust Nicholas Hardisty.
“Good. Let’s get on with it then.” His brisk, business-like tone belies the sensuous trail of his fingertips from my chin along my shoulder and down the outside curve of my right breast.
Carefully not disturbing the clamps, he feathers his thumbs, I think it’s his thumbs, across the small portion of each nipple not tightly clasped between the grips. I tingle once more. The tortured peaks are rock hard, the blood trapped there making them ultra-sensitized to even the slightest touch. His tongue replaces his thumbs, the soft flick across the distended little buds achingly, unbearably tender.
He repeats the caress, both nipples at once this time. I gasp, jerk back, causing the weights to swing and the clamps to bite me even harder. Not his tongue then. And not his fingers either, too soft. Again, that feather-light almost touch, almost not. I’m desperately trying to imagine what he’s using, what he’s touching me with. It doesn’t hurt, and it’s too light, t
oo delicate, to be truly arousing. Isn’t it?
He draws that light ‘something’ across both my nipples once more. Slowly. It’s fluid, muted, incredibly intense. And so very arousing. I remember his instruction not to come, and I wonder how long I’ll be able to hold out. A while. Maybe, as long as he doesn’t…
I gasp as he turns his attention—and his feather-like implement—to my clit. Oh, God, not good. So good. I can’t bear this, I have to come. I need to come. Now. I’m shaking, almost sobbing under the cruel duress of fighting my out-of-control arousal. Of trying desperately to tamp it down. I need the release, and it’s coming soon—I know it. I can’t fight it for much longer, but I’m too scared of his reaction if I disobey him. I can’t let him down, can’t disappoint him. But I need…
“Are you thinking about coming without permission, greedy, disobedient little sub?”
His low voice is like a splash of cold water, reminding me who’s Master here. I shake my head violently, grinding my teeth as I squeeze down hard on my inner emptiness, clenching everything at my core in a last, desperate attempt to obey him.
And merciful at last, he decides to help me out. I flinch as a sharp flicker of almost-pain shoots across the front of my right thigh. He waits a moment before the next stroke, which connects with my left thigh, just under that little hollow where my leg meets my groin. It’s some sort of a lash, like a whip but not quite. It falls again, this time across my stomach, and a little harder now. It is pain. Not the searing pain of the paddle across my bottom earlier in the evening, but definitely uncomfortable. And getting worse. He adds a little more bite with each stroke, each lash carefully placed and accurately judged to lay exactly the right sensation on my body. I’m quivering, jerking each time he flogs me. He moves to my breasts—already throbbing and unbearably tender, still cruelly gripped in the nipple clamps—and delivers several lashes to the undersides before moving to the upper curves. He’s ramping up the pressure now, each stroke stinging a whisker more than the last, and they’re coming at me thick and fast. The pressure builds as he lays the flogger across my breasts, my stomach, my abdomen, and back to that vulnerable, sensitive, undefended space between my legs. And he gentles his touch again. Just when I expected, anticipated the cruel sting of the lash to strike me where it would hurt the most, he turns it into the most delicate caress.