by Cee Smith
As I waited for the results to load, I wondered about Everett’s own submersion into this seemingly underground world. Did someone introduce him, too? Was there any place he wasn’t in control? How many subs were there before me?
I perused the site titles, looking for ones to catch my attention.
Dominant/Submissive Guide
Introduction to Submission?
How Should a Dominant Treat His Submissive?
I clicked on “Introduction to Submission” hoping to gain some insight into what exactly was expected of me. I scanned through definitions and expectations, but found myself really focusing on the differences between natural submissives vs. role-playing submissives. Which was I?
I recalled memories of my time at Fetish. How had it made me feel to wait for Everett? To be tied up? To give up control to him? His every instruction amplified the anticipation, but more than anything I wanted a reaction from Everett. I had no doubt that he could make me feel good, that whatever he deemed to do to me would be worth all of the wait. What I wanted to see was his reaction to me—how did I make him feel, and did domination bring him joy?
The only time I saw true passion in him was when he exerted control. I wanted to be the source of his passion. Did that make me a “natural submissive”? If anything I found myself a rebel by nature. After years spent crowded by my mother’s shadow, I found my freedom to be a breath of fresh air. Maybe it was her coddling that led me down this road? Maybe I would have found my way with or without Everett?
It was Everett’s authoritative stance that caught my attention that first night on the train; maybe deep down I could sense the dominant in him.
Growing up without a father meant I never had a man in my life. I spent years being babied, my mother scared of every scraped knee and bruised ego. I’d chosen Columbia to flee from my mom, but it was more than that. I wanted to forge my own future, write my own path, make my own mistakes. I wanted something that was mine and mine alone. Something all for myself. Everett could be that something.
Of all the men I’d met, he was the only one who made me feel like he could be enough. He could give me exactly what I needed. Everett’s honesty was sharp, like Teagan’s but without the playful nature. He was the most mature person I’d met who didn’t look at me like I was a kid or speak down to me just because I was younger than him. His seemingly aloof nature, which would be seen as a deterrent to most, was like a siren call to this newly minted graduate. He was a psychological puzzle I wanted to figure out.
But aside from the things that drew me to him was the way he made me feel. There was this urge I had that he seemed to feed off of, drag out of me. An urge I hadn’t known I had. It was a competitive spirit that resided somewhere only he could see. From the moment he said “five stops,” my body raced with the thrill of meeting his goal.
He set the initial challenge, but both of us raised the stakes with every encounter.
The more time I spent with him, the more I realized it was his recognition that I fed on. I wanted to exceed his expectations, only to have the simple reward of “good girl.” Just the thought of those words from his lips made the heat between my legs rage hotter. Maybe I’m more submissive than I thought?
I read on, fueled by the ever-present need that twisted my muscles into knots. Clicking on a new section, I found myself searching through the glossary of common “toys.” Some of these items I’d seen before—cuffs, chains, floggers—but some were new to me. The big cross that took up the left side of his room, the one that made me shiver upon sight, I learned was called a “St. Andrew’s cross”—a rather holy name for something that looked so demonic.
In a new tab I typed in “St. Andrew’s cross” and clicked on “images.” I had a general idea of how one uses something like that, but I was intrigued by the overwhelming size of the contraption. While each of the crosses looked different, there was one thing that stood out amongst all of the images. Every person, man or woman, old or young, it didn’t matter who they were—in each image, their faces were a mask of serenity. Would I look that serene on his cross?
I’m not sure how long I spent in front of that computer. It must’ve been hours as I clicked through image after image, watching video after video. I was voracious for more. Swept up in the ecstasy, I found myself daydreaming about my next meeting with Everett.
Would he do any of the things I’d witnessed in those videos? Would he know just what to say to make my body tremble? Would he make me beg, pant, scream? Would he enjoy every minute of it?
Then I came upon the darkest of desires—fetishes I didn’t even know existed, let alone people indulged in. Warnings and disclaimers popped up like the flimsy yellow “police line do not cross” tape. I pressed on, ignoring all discouragement of entry. How bad could it be?
There are no words for the things I saw. The tamest of images were the “after” pictures of submissives that’d been caned. Purple and black bruises lined their bodies, a crisp outline of the cane they’d been whacked with. The images alone made me flinch.
My fear only heightened the deeper I dove. Urine. Feces. Blood-play. Knife-play. Men in diapers. Things that had no business trying to fit inside these teeny tiny places.
I’d read about a safeword, but had no idea how necessary it was until I saw some of those images. The traffic light system seemed to be what was most common—“red” for stop and “yellow” to pause, but I wanted something more personal. I had no idea if I’d ever need to use it, but if so, I wanted something to remind him that we were more than Tuesdays and Thursdays. He wanted so desperately to keep what we did away from the office. “What happened today won’t happen again,” he’d said earlier. He couldn’t be any clearer. The line was clearly drawn—there would be no future dalliances on his desk, no future quickies within earshot of Catherine. I needed a word that would effectively bring truth to the nature of our relationship. We were much more than sometimes lovers. At the moment we were co-workers, but if I got my way, we’d be a lot more than that. It would just take some convincing to show him that our level of compatibility went beyond dominant and submissive.
As I continued reading, I felt overcome by the same college-cramming rush I used to feel right before finals. I guess this wasn’t too far off. Everett seemed to test me at every opportunity, and when I went back to Fetish, I wanted to ace the test.
The way he looked at me in his office, I could tell he was so close to saying no. He looked at me and saw innocence. Perhaps that was why he had me strip down naked in his office. If I had shown any sign of hesitation, he would have stopped me and sent me on my way. My determination was the only reason why I was up late looking at images, kerosene to my revved up libido. Maybe if I walked into his room like I knew what I was doing there, then he would treat me like someone who deserved to be there.
There was only one way to find out.
Thursday, September 17th
“I see you’re back, and it seems you’re good at following directions,” Everett said as he entered the room. Like he instructed the last time I was there, I was naked and kneeling at the edge of his bed, waiting for him. I couldn’t see him, but I remembered what he looked like earlier at work—black slacks, black vest with white diamond stitching, and hunter green shirt with that silver tie that made the gray strands in his hair stand out. He looked distinguished.
Just like I imagined and true to his word, at work Everett acted like nothing happened on Tuesday night. As though I had never met him at a sex club and he hadn’t had his tongue between my legs only hours before seeing him the next morning. It was a bit disarming how easily he seemed to be able to shut us on and off. He seemed to do well with compartmentalizing. A quality I admired all morning as I kept recalling thoughts from the night before. Mostly of what would have happened had I not been receiving a punishment and had he let me orgasm. My body tossed and turned the previous night, recalling the touch of his hands or feel of his tongue as he laved my body at just the right tempo to h
eighten my desire, without sending me crashing into an orgasm.
His footsteps drew nearer and his hand fell across my shoulder, his thumb resting just above the muscle of my shoulder that had been growing a knot since the first moment I realized he was my boss. He massaged the knot, rolling his thumb deep through the tissue. My head fell back as relaxation washed over me. He continued a few minutes longer, without words, and then moved his hand to rest against the side of my neck, marking the end of my impromptu massage.
“What is your safeword?”
“Director.”
“Very well,” he said, showing no reaction to my choice in safeword. “And what about limits? What are you not comfortable with?”
“Any of the really weird stuff like blood-play, knife-play. Other than cum or spit, no other bodily fluids—”
“Such as?”
“You know, like urine or…”
“Or what?” he asked forcing me to spell out the one thing that shouldn’t even be mentioned or thought of, let alone involved, in a place like this.
“Shit. There. Is that what you wanted me to say, sir?”
“Yes. That was exactly what I wanted you to say. Anything else? Or should I skip straight to beating the sass out of you?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I dropped my head lower, my head nearly touching the footboard. “Um, I didn’t really find anything else, but canes do make me a bit nervous.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They seem especially painful. I don’t know how much pain I’m into. I haven’t really experimented with that. Also, I’ve seen some of the bruises from canes and it was a bit…scary.”
“I think you should at least experience it. You have a safeword for a reason, and I would never push you further than your body is comfortable with. Part of being your dom is being able to read just how much you can take and bring you right to the edge without going over. But that takes time and trust. Which is why you have your safeword. Is that all then?”
“I don’t really know how I feel about anal fisting either.”
He laughed heartily, a deep guttural laugh that I’d never heard from him before.
“Duly noted. Now what did you do when you got home last night?”
It took a second for me to register the change of conversation before I replied, “Went to bed.”
“You didn’t masturbate when you got home?”
“No. Though my sheets were a mess from all the wet dreams.”
He chortled and said, “Good girl.”
“Do you know what a St. Andrew’s cross is?”
“That big X over there.” My head stayed lowered as I pointed in the direction of the cross that called attention to itself whenever I stepped in the room.
“Rise and go over to the cross. Stop when you’re less than a foot in front of it.”
I did as he said, rising on shaky legs and heading to the St. Andrew’s cross that I’d seen and read so much about but had never experienced before. I was equally excited and frightened, but I’d resigned myself to always feeling that heady mix whenever I stepped foot in this place.
Earlier, when I had approached Gail at the podium, I shrugged out of my coat with unexpected ease. She didn’t lead the way to Everett’s room as she had last time, but I didn’t need direction. I knew exactly where I was going and walked with a sureness I didn’t have the previous time I had come. It was only once I stepped foot inside the room that the reality of what I was signing on for hit me. I was giving myself over to Everett in every way, giving him not only my body but control over both of our desires.
Pausing before the large cross, I took in the straps dangling from the edges of the post, imagining the bite of confinement against my wrists and ankles. I didn’t have to imagine long because before I’d even finished imagining myself strapped in, Everett was striding over to that side of the room.
His chest brushed against my back, and I could feel the muscles of his chest and abdomen through the fabric of his clothes. The cool air that had been clinging to my body like a second skin vanished with his nearness, swept away by the tidal wave of warmth he carried with him. Sweeping the hair from my back, he used my shoulder as a curtain holder for my mass of hair. A finger danced across my nape, outlining the fine hairs too short to be pushed aside. That one touch sent a spark down my body, and I quivered with expectation of what would happen next.
His hand uncurled against my neck and he wrapped the column with his fingers, showing restraint in the slight pressure he added as he led me closer to the structure before me. I took one step, then another, until my body was nearly flush with the metal. Once I was in place, Everett moved swiftly to strap me in as if he was racing against time. Maybe he was.
With the last click of the strap on my ankle, goosebumps climbed over my skin, awaiting the next move.
“Have you ever felt the kiss of a flogger on your skin?”
“No, sir.”
“But you’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Don’t answer that. I know you have. A naughty girl like you. Your skin’s practically begging for it now.” His fingers grazed across my back, stopping just above my ass. He didn’t remove his hand, but simply rested it there. That stillness evoked something in me, nudged at the urge to have his skin dancing alongside mine, the urge to feel more of him, all of him. I’d experienced so little of him and I wanted more. I craved more. His stillness was antagonizing.
“Please,” I whispered while subtly twitching my hips, anything to create the brush of his fingers across my skin.
“Patience, Indigo.”
I bit back the retort ready to come hurdling forth from my lips. I had been patient. I had sat patiently for days, weeks, months. I waited while he acted like he didn’t even remember me. I didn’t even jump any of those times he touched me—all of which left me with a racing heart and a throbbing pussy. I even waited as he brought me to the edge of what would have been an epic orgasm had he not sent me home. And still with all of my waiting, he told me to have patience.
The cold swept back in as his hand fell away from my back. I heard his footfalls somewhere behind me, but I didn’t move for fear I’d receive some other unwarranted punishment. I couldn’t leave there like I had the previous night—unfulfilled and wanting. Creaking wood sounded behind me, and I knew he was back in that dresser again. What will he use on me this time?
“How many hits do you think you can take before orgasming?”
“Oh, God,” I cried and sank within my bonds, feeling the bite of the leather at my wrists holding me up.
“Shh, Indigo. The only sound I want to hear leave these lips is you counting out each strike and your thanks for bestowing on you the pleasure of my flogger. Do you understand, Indigo?
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Hands back up on the chains.”
Finding my buried strength, I reached for the chains and held on. I flinched at the touch of buttery-like leather on my skin. He drew the flogger up to my neck and followed my hair over my shoulder, drawing any stray hairs off my back. As much as I wanted to turn my head and view the man behind me, I didn’t. I would have to wait until another day to see him, all suited up, flogger in his outstretched hand ready to strike.
The first strike to my backside was enough to startle me, forcing the breath from my lungs, but not so hearty that I dropped my hold on the chains. I waited for the next strike, bracing myself for the uncomfortable bite of pain.
“I don’t think I heard you. Let me try that again.”
Fuck. How hard can it be to fucking count. I chastised myself while waiting for him to start over. God, I hope I come soon.
The next strike was just as forceful on my right cheek, but this time I didn’t miss a beat, “One. Thank you, sir.”
“That’s more like it. And with such gusto. I like your enthusiasm. Let’s see if you can keep it up.”
His praise sent warmth through me, vanishing the stinging throb alternating from each cheek. The next strike was
just as gingerly, and I winced while speaking on ruffled breaths, “Two. Thank you, sir.”
He peppered my ass, swatting back and forth, picking up speed as I called out the numbers while also thanking him. We both fell into a rhythm that could only be described like a dance. He led and I followed, our bodies moving in rotation of the other. Before I knew it, the stinging pain had morphed into something else. Like drops of water falling into a river, my body absorbed each strike until I began to welcome the warmth that each swat elicited. Everett dropped the flogger lower and struck me where the tendrils of the flogger danced closer to the outside of my pussy.
“Nine. Thank you, sir,” I panted between breaths.
He hesitated between striking again and I wondered if he could sense it too. This feeling wrapping around every muscle in my body, ready to snap at the first opportunity. My body was a bow drawing tighter with each flick of his wrist, and I was so desperate to snap.
“You’re doing very well, Indigo.” His words melted me. If it weren’t for those bonds holding me up, I would’ve been pooling at his feet at that very moment. I tightened my grip on the chains as I resisted that very notion.
“Very well indeed,” he said and I smiled at his words.
The flogger struck again, wrapping underneath my ass to brush my pussy with the leather tails. I gasped, my body snapping rigid from the shock of the flogger.
“Ten. Thank you, sir.”
“I’m going to strike faster. You can stop counting now.”
I nodded my head in understanding, and he didn’t wait. One strike after another crept closer, and the muscles in my legs twitched to close, anything to alleviate the pressure building. My juices dripped down my thighs, accentuated by the strike of the flogger against my pussy. The muscles of my stomach tightened and I knew the next strike was going to send me spiraling.