It's almost three on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon; I'm early, but early is better than late. When I left work about an hour ago, my boss told me to have a good time. She thinks I've got a standing once-a-month dinner with my great-aunt. It's the only real scheduling concession I've ever asked for, so she's happy to let me go.
"Thanks! I always do," I told her. And it's the truth. Just...not the way she means it.
My 'appointment' is on the third floor of a nice apartment building uptown, where I am now standing, waiting for John to open his door. John is older, but not elderly, and certainly not a relative. Married, but not to me.
Sometimes I feel bad about that, though I take none of his money and hardly any of his time. That's probably not enough for absolution... but I've come to accept what I am. What I need.
Two, maybe three dozen times I've come here and I still get nervous, it's still a surprise when the door opens and there he is. Smiling blue eyes, shirtsleeves rolled up, a glass of wine for me. "You're a little early," he says. "Good girl."
I have occasionally contemplated having my name legally changed to "Good Girl", if it meant I could hear him saying the words more often. His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.
He takes my jacket and leads me into the apartment, into the dining room. Food is first, always light and delicious, something to keep our strength up. John and I really have known each other forever, he's been a friend of my family since before I came along to join it 20 years ago; my father's business partner. Every holiday he's at the table, every birthday party he's there with a tasteful gift. So there's plenty for us to talk about while we dine. Innocent conversation. As if neither of us had any idea, any intention of more wicked pursuits.
That's part of the foreplay, of course.
(Once, I grew frustrated with the pretense. I stopped eating in the middle of dessert, stood up, stripped down to stockings and panties right there, while he watched. Laid myself supine across the table, knees bent, shamelessly exposed, and slid two fingers between my legs. Writhing and shuddering and getting myself off right in front of him. He sat and watched without a sound, finished his wine, then pulled me off the table and onto my knees. Hands in my hair, pulling me down, making me suck his cock until he exploded...at least I knew he'd enjoyed the show. And after he came, wiped my mouth gently and sent me home frustrated and nearly in tears. The next time, I'd behaved myself impeccably, showing proper contrition, and we had a wonderful evening.)
Tonight we have salad - mesclun, baby spinach, red anjou pears, seared steak perfectly rare - and appropriate wine, followed by strawberries with black pepper and balsamic vinegar. Brandy, after. We clear the table together in companionable silence.
He guides me into the bedroom, one hand at my lower back, like a gentleman.
Strange, how everything here is light and clean. Ivory linen, blonde wood, brass, porcelain. Simple straightforward lines. On the wall over the bed, an O'Keefe, as tall as I am and blazing black and scarlet, catching the eye with shocking, sensual colors.
The poppy is his favorite, he told me once.
We have a routine for this too, a ritual - distancing ourselves from the world outside, from who we are to each other there. Though sometimes I think the ritual only exists so he can violate it - lulling me into complacency until the door closes and we are in his territory. A few times he's caught me out that way and those sessions leave me shaking, speechless, ripped out of myself, rugburned and sore for days.
I couldn't bear it every time. But every once in a while...I need it that way; and he always seems to know, even when I don't.
Today there is no interruption - no sudden pulling at my hair, no rough words. He sits at the edge of the bed and watches me undress. Any lingerie (he's partial to stockings, and old-fashioned lace) is my own, clothes and shoes bought myself; I won't let him buy me those things. He always compliments me on my choices. This time it's all black silk, and I can tell he approves.
"I had that color in mind," he says. "But take everything off for now. Shoes as well. We'll put you in something else."
Naked, I cross the room to stand between his legs, and lean down for our kiss. This is the promise, the seal of our covenant; that I will give myself to him, that he will take good care of me.
It's the last thing we do as equals.
As soon as our mouths part he touches me, cupping my breasts, taking both rosy nipples between his fingers and squeezing hard. Pressure that makes my knees weaken, sets me on fire, a slow molten burn straight down into my groin. Imagine taking a swallow of hot cocoa, just barely below the scalding point; the way it feels, first stinging the mouth, then sinking into you, deep behind your breastbone and descending. It's like that. Right away I'm in that other place, the endorphin junkie submissive place, getting wet and dizzy. When he lets go I have to stop myself pleading for more.
He leaves me by the side of the bed, my hands clasped behind me, demure. Heels together, breathing hard. I hear his keys rattle, hear the cedar chest open behind me. I'm not supposed to look; just trust, and anticipate, and fear. He always shows pity, though, and blindfolds me first, soft leather pads over the eyes, buckled behind my head. So I won't be tempted to peek, to commit Psyche's sin.
First blind, then mute; the ball gag stretching my mouth open wide, filling me perfectly, tightened securely but not to the point of discomfort. Plugs in my ears to muffle all sound, and that's something he's only taken from me once or twice before. Tenderly he gathers up my hair into a ponytail, neat and out of the way.
I stand untouched, waiting, and the seconds stretch out interminably. There's very little rational thought left to me; everything's off balance, out of phase. I remember the first time he had me like this, how I cried behind the blindfold and came when his fingers delicately stroked once over my clit; so lost...so found.
Sensation, his hands on me again, at last; wrapping something around my waist, my chest. I smell leather and feel its soft smoothness against my skin, inhale deeply and hold while he laces me into the corset. It cradles me, confines me, but leaves my breasts exposed. Then the long gloves, lacing tightly all the way up my arms. Boots the same, his careful hands steadying me as I step into them, smoothing the kidskin up my thighs and fastening them as tight as the other garments. Each part of this process takes me a little further away, ritualistically dehumanizing me, turning me from a self-assured professional woman to a pretty, helpless doll. My body feels compressed, blood pounding through arms and legs, even my breathing controlled, made shallow at his whim. By contrast my breasts, belly, sex feel exposed, superbly tender and sensitive; he brushes his fingertips across my left hip and I almost moan behind the gag.
The liberation in this perversity is astounding.
He binds my hands behind me, tight, wrist to elbow, the position pressing my chest outward; then I am guided foward, lifted onto the bed...on my knees...shoulders pushed down, a soft pillow beneath me, a position of helpless subservience. I can see myself in my mind and the depravity of the image is breathtaking, black leather and pale flesh, my legs spread obscenely wide, dripping cunt glistening, open.
Behind me, he raises my ankles - one, then the other - and fastens them somehow to my thighs. A rigid bar between my knees, keeping me open and immobile. There is no Kirsten anymore; she's been subsumed into this living toy, John's doll, a whimpering shuddering thing displayed for his pleasure.
He may be taking photographs. It would not be the first time, and the knowledge that I have no choice, no chance to object, only adds to the fire. My pulse pounds in my head like a bass drum, overwhelming.
Hands slide over my skin. I must assume they are his. Delicate, long-fingered, caressing my ass, tickling along the backs of my thighs until I buck and squirm.
Then - cold, oh god...something hard, slick, cold against my labia, sliding back and forth ever so lightly, pressed over my aching clit for a shocking moment - then back - teasing over my pussy, back and forth, so cold against my heat, until he moves it back even further and I feel the object pressing into my ass. Slow, implacable, stretching and pushing and sliding into me - no pause for my whimpers and cries, just cold and thick, a long undulating shape pushed in and in until the widest point slips past and the oblong base netles snug between my cheeks. He caresses me, letting me settle, almost relaxing - comparatively - then the base is in his fingers again and he slowly fucks my ass with whatever toy this is, its shape stretching me again and again, oh god it feels so dirty, so cold, and I'm crying for him and pushing back, trying to take more, wanting only more fullness, more sensation.
And he takes it away. For a moment I'm empty, and it's almost unbearable. I would accept anything now, punishment, pain; just not empiness, not to be left here with no contact, trapped in my flesh.
He never makes me wait long. After the chill of that first penetration the throbbing heat of his cock sliding into my ass is an intense shock. I'm already stretched, slick with lube, and he fills me easily - though, oh, he's thicker than the toy was, he feels enormous and hot, and it's so good when he starts to fuck me - one or two slow strokes to make sure I'm ready - and then he takes his pleasure with me, his rough dirty pleasure, one hand wrapped around my bound forearms for leverage, pulling me back onto him. The slap of our bodies must be filling the room, the sound of my gutteral cries muffled through the gag, and I can feel myself dripping wet, stuffed full over and over, until his hand tightens on my arm and he throbs inside me, pushing in hard, filling me with hot, sticky come.
Using me. Like I should be used.
Eventually, after more play...after punishment and pleasure, he lets me climax. Forces it on me, really, with the damned Hitachi that I love and hate so much, dragging come after hard, bucking come out of me until I can't even moan anymore. Then the soft damp cloth against my flushed exhausted skin, wiping me clean, and all the laces undone, the swooning head-rush of my altered bloodflow finding its equilibrium again. John strokes my hair and tells me what a good girl I am, good girl, his very best girl.
I always knew, always, that I needed something, that I wasn't complete. I never realized it would be this, or that John would be my saviour, my protector. Everything I struggle with is easier, every burden lightened. Every destructive impulse burned out in the intensity of our sex.
Would it work for everyone? Oh, most likely not. I doubt any psychiatrist would approve. Certainly most people would find this sluttish depravity damning.
But for me...it's salvation.