Authors: Tara Crescent
Lisa:
I dreamed of Patrick that night.
I was in his examination room. The one with the medical table, complete with stirrups and straps. Neat shelves contained the supplies to give me an enema, or to open up my pussy or my anus with a speculum, to examine my insides with anal thermometers and probes. There were syringes there to inject me with lube or any other fluid of his devising. There were gags for my mouth; ball-gags that I could drool around, or ring gags that would force my mouth open as he shoved whatever he pleased down my throat.
And then there were the instruments of pain. Whips. Floggers. Crops. So that I would balance at that perfect point between pleasure and pain.
I was in this room, I was wearing a hospital robe, and kneeling on the floor. I was here willingly, and this was the only spot in the world I wanted to be in.
In a moment, my Dominant would come in. And the games would begin.
***
A knock on the door. Always the knock on the door. Was it politeness? Was it immaculate role-play, merely what a doctor would do if a real patient was in the examination room? Or was it something more? A way to warn me that the time to serve him was at hand.
In this room, I would accede to his requests and submit to his desires.
In this room, I was his.
Patrick entered. Outside the room lay the cares of the real world; outside fears and vague unquiet concerns. But inside this room, he was my Doctor and my Dominant. My examination was about to start and nothing else mattered.
“Miss Preston,” he greeted me with a smile. My chart was in his hands. I was wearing the skimpy hospital robe, washed so many times that the fabric had become almost transparent. I was naked underneath, my hair pulled back into a ponytail to keep it from falling in my face and interfering with the Doctor’s examination.
“Dr. Anderson,” I said, my eyes on my hands. My knees were spread apart and the robe had hiked up, almost to my pussy. He moved in a slow, steady, circle around me, evaluating what was at hand. Plotting out today’s adventures.
“Up on the table, Miss Preston.” His voice was now crisp. I hopped up; quick to comply with his orders. I lay flat on my back, staring up into the air, my mind at peace.
He bent towards me. He smiled, the sweetest, warmest smile in the world. “Lisa,” he said, his voice a gentle caress. “What’s your safeword?”
Always the confirmation. I didn’t need a safe
word with him; he would stop at any hint of disquiet. My wellbeing was always uppermost in his mind. But I answered him anyway. “Red.” My voice was soft and compliant. I was already inching towards the place where I existed only to obey him.
“I might gag you,” he said. “Here.” He placed a red ball in my hand. “Drop it, and we stop.”
I nodded my agreement. He leaned forward, kissed me, running his tongue at the seam of my lips, till I groaned and parted my lips for him to push in and claim me. He sucked my lower lip into his mouth, kissed me, soft, sweet kisses. Our tongues intertwined and our souls connected as I pulled his waist into my body so that his weight was pressed down on me, his chest crushing my breasts. I was drowning in delirious pleasure.
You can fuck someone, and be fucked. They can take your pussy and your mouth and your ass. They can set a fucking machine thrusting into your vagina. They can control your orgasms with a look. They can make you beg them for pleasure. They can beat you and crop you and have you plead for it.
But kissing? Kissing is intimacy. And I am lost in the intimacy of the moment.
Finally, he straightened. I watched his eyes as the lust there was veiled, and the iron control took over.
“Hands and knees, Miss Preston,” he instructed. I got on my hands and knees on the table, trying to be graceful and failing miserably.
I could feel the weight of my breasts hanging down, and moisture coalesced between my legs. The hospital gown swung open and the fabric hung away from me. I could feel the cool air on my ass and my pussy, and it left me feeling more exposed than if I was actually naked. I could imagine the image in front of him, a bare ass and pussy, framed by a hospital gown of faded cotton that concealed nothing. My nipples hardened at the thought and a familiar trickle of arousal ran through me.
I heard a drawer open, and he walked towards me with a red suede flogger in his hands. My eyes widened, but I kept my head up; I would comply with my Dominant’s wishes. In his pleasure, I would find my own.
The first few strokes warmed me up as they struck me across my ass. Soft tendrils of heat ran through my body, starting at the point where the tails struck me, and flooding through my body. I could feel my pussy gush, the juices trickling down my thigh. I could smell my arousal in the air. I shivered in shame, but I could not deny this reaction. Instant lust flooded through my body when the strands of the flogger kissed my skin.
The flogger stopped its strokes for a moment. Patrick’s fingers scooped up the moisture from my thighs, and I could hear him suck his fingers clean. My muscles clenched. More juice trickled down at the sheer eroticism of him licking my pussy juice from my thighs. As if he read my mind, I felt his tongue snake a path up my thighs, licking me clean and then biting me softly to mark his presence.
“Patrick,” I groaned. I had no power to hold my position without moving in the face of such pleasure.
“Keep still, Miss Preston,” he snapped. I could hear the smile in his voice, always there, layered in with the crisp orders.
“Yes, Doctor Anderson,” I groaned. I couldn’t take his torture without moving, without pushing towards him and begging for his cock in my body. But the rules of the game were that I was forbidden to move, I was forbidden to speak unless I was spoken to, and above all, I was forbidden to orgasm without his express permission.
Today, I didn’t think that permission would be granted anytime soon.
The flogger resumed its warm march up and down my body, striking my ass and my thighs and my pussy. It took all the training I had and my fervent desire to please him to hold still and to keep quiet. Soft whimpers I was allowed, and I whimpered and moaned, not in pain, but in pleasure. The fire was slowly lit in my body. Each stroke caused it to blaze up more and more, until a searing heat took over, and I couldn’t keep from bursting into flames.
Fire. Ice. Always the contrasts.
I flinched as the cube of ice was rubbed slowly across my reddened ass, and earned myself a sharp spank for the movement. “Keep your head up,” he snapped. I obeyed instantly. Patrick didn’t want meekness in me. He wanted strength.
“Do you like the ice, sweetness?” His voice was gentle.
“Yes, Doctor Anderson,” I whispered. I liked everything he did to me. When I gave him control over my body, I felt freer than I thought possible.
The ice melted and dripped down, the cool beads trickling down my ass and my pussy, till I thought I would combust with lust and longing. His hot tongue followed the water, lapping it up, and tasting me with it. I gripped the red ball he had placed in my hand as I struggled to stay still. Small whimpers filled the room, the sounds of sex.
“Does my sweet sub like that?” I could hear the smile in his voice. He loved it when I obeyed, and knowing this, I tried to do my best for him. But when I whimpered in need, despite my training and my orders, undone by the pleasure he was causing me, I gave him the sweetest satisfaction.
In my own, stubborn way, I knew this and wouldn’t yield easily. But his mouth set every nerve ending it touched ablaze, and I had very little power to resist his slow seduction.
“Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I admitted, a small hint of reluctance in my voice. He laughed at the tiny tidbit of defiance.
He came around to face me, and I parted my lips automatically, hoping to feel his cock in my mouth. His chuckle sent heat running through my face, and his muttered
not yet, sweetness
, sent fire through my body.
“First,” he said, pulling a ball-gag out of his pocket, “let’s remind you to keep quiet.” I smiled as I opened my mouth obediently for him to gag my mouth, and he smiled back, and then, his hand stroked the side of my face very softly.
“You please me so much, my sweet Lisa,” he said. There was warmth and pleasure in his voice, and the words were a blanket of comfort. My Dominant. I’d given him my trust, and in return, he gave me love and the freedom to explore my darkest of desires.
His fingers pulled the straps holding my gown in place, he helped me out of it, and then, it was thrown across the room. One step closer to loss of control, to the moment when he’d unzip his pants and thrust his dick in my pussy. Or my ass. Or my mouth. I could never predict how he would take me. I only knew that pleasure was guaranteed.
But only one step closer. Loss of control was a long way away.
There was a smile in his eyes, as if he could tell what I was thinking. His fingers ran down my shoulders, his mouth stopping to kiss my neck. They traced a path up my arms and they found my breasts, and his hands closed around their base and squeezed.
Harder, I wanted to beg. I could speak through the gag and warble out the words and the incoherent pleas. But that was not what he desired from me, and I was a true submissive. My path to pleasure lay, not just in the feel of his fingers on my clitoris, but also in the warmth and approval in his eyes when I obeyed him. Difficult though it was to hold back the pleading, I stayed silent.
“Good girl,” he spoke, and his hands tightened on my breasts, the way he knew I liked it, as his thumbs and his forefingers brushed over my nipples at the same time.
In a moment, I knew my breasts would be crushed hard by his hands. Then, he’d slap them and set them swinging. If he was in the mood to embarrass me, he would clamp my nipples with the clamps with bells at their tips, so that the bells would chime as he struck me.
The chiming of the bells was the sound of arousal and shame; my tacit acknowledgement that this rough treatment of my breasts was something I longed for. If he was in a different mood, his fingers would pinch and pull at my nipples, stretch them towards the examination table, hurt them with the sweetest of touches.
The morning after, I always looked battered and bruised. Other people would have seen abuse if they looked at my body. I only saw love.
Chimes today. I heard the bells start to ring. They kept ringing, and the sound got louder and closer, and the room got brighter behind my closed eyelids. Two people talked about traffic delays on the 401.
Fuck. I was jerked out of my dream by my cruel alarm clock, and my heart was racing as I sat up in bed. I looked down at my body, but I already knew what I would find. My nipples were erect and my pussy was wet. In a few moments, I would have orgasmed.
I just stayed in bed for a few minutes, waiting for my body to ease off that cliff. I was so close to climaxing, but something prevented me from reaching between my legs and easing that pressure. The dream. That feeling that I belonged to him; that he needed to give me permission before I could come.
Yesterday, I had stormed away from Patrick after learning that his ex-wife had been his 24/7 submissive. That had to be why I was dreaming that he was my Dominant. It had to be. But I couldn’t explain the sense of peace that had been pervasive through the dream, and I sure as hell couldn’t explain why I had never, ever, not even for one instant, felt my trust in him falter.
Patrick:
I wanted to run after Lisa. Letting her go was one of the hardest things I had ever done.
But she had a sprained wrist, possibly broken. She needed to get that taken care off. And from the look on her face, my presence would not be helpful.
Fucking Andrea. She had cleverly retreated into the ER, knowing I wouldn’t follow her there and interrupt a doctor-patient conference. For the moment, there was little I could do. But this wouldn’t be the last of it.
***
It was dark when I got back to my home. I’d gone for a drive, passing the hours aimlessly, my mind a total blank. I wasn’t supposed to feel this lost and this anchorless without Lisa.
Should I have told her about Andrea? I would have. But I hadn’t wanted to burden her with too much of my past too soon. And now Andrea had taken the decision away from me.
***
She was there, kneeling, naked on the coffee table in my living room when I returned home. Andrea.
“Master,” she greeted me softly. Her eyes were lowered and her body was an image of perfect submission. But I’d been married to her for eight years, and I knew how tainted and twisted that gift was.
“I’m not your master.” My voice was a snap. I could hear the loathing in it. “Put your clothes on.”
“Yes, master,” she said. She undoubtedly thought she was a paragon of submission, but I knew better. Andrea was spoiled and wilful, and this was just another way she showed it. We both knew that there was nothing between us, hadn’t been for a very long time. Yet today, she’d interfered in my budding relationship with a woman I cared about, then showed up to my house and called me master. It was all about her control, under the guise of submission.
I made a mental note to change my locks as I wandered to the kitchen and poured myself a healthy shot of whiskey. She would eventually follow me when she realized I wasn’t going to play her game.
***
My divorce with Andrea had been amicable; our marriage had been anything but. Eventually though, I had realized she had no interest in reaching any kind of compromise. Her version of submission had involved a complete abdication of herself, a total emptying so that she could have moulded herself into what she thought I wanted.
But I hadn’t known that. I’d fallen in love with the girl she had pretended to be. Someone like me, who had come from a crazy, money-filled world. Someone who found purpose and passion in medical school. It had all been a lie.
To this day, I still have no idea why she had married me, when she had known ahead of time that I had no desire to be her master in all things. For me, the dominance was a spice, something that made everything better. For her, it was closer to air and water.
She’d lied to me at the start of our marriage when she pretended to be something she wasn’t. She’d lied to me in the intervening years when she swore she’d try, even though she had no intention of following through. When I finally asked for a divorce, it was the best thing I’d ever done for the both of us. I set us free so we could both go off and seek what we wanted.
I’d heard from Alison that Andrea had been living with some guy. She had looked disapproving as she’d said it, but I wasn’t interested in knowing anything about it. I was just relieved to turn the page. But here she was, naked in my living room, and once again, she was preventing me from finding any actual happiness.
***
“Aren’t you living with someone?” I asked her when she finally found me in the kitchen. Typical, she’d put on her shirt, but buttoned the minimum necessary number of buttons. The vanity was staggering. I was supposed to be so captivated by her body that I forgot eight years of pain.
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “Liam’s away for the weekend.”
Of course he was. And since there wasn’t someone to anchor onto, Andrea spent her time the second best way, fucking up my life. Yes, I was bitter. I had endured eight years of this.
“What did you tell Lisa?” I asked her. Hoping against hope for a straightforward answer.
I wasn’t going to get it. “Oh, you mean the woman you were with at the AGO with last night?” she asked, her eyes innocent. “I just said hello, that’s all.”
“Really? Just hello?” I didn’t try to keep the anger out of my voice.
“Okay, I made a joke about her broken wrist,” she elaborated, every bit of her displaying reluctance to answer the question. “Something about bondage and submission.”
What the heck? That wouldn’t have set Lisa running. Andrea was still hiding something.
“What were your exact words, Andrea?” I bit off each word. I’d never wanted to hurt her in our marriage, not even at the height of our difficulties. Right now though, I was balling my fists and struggling for control.
“I can’t remember,” she said. Stubborn. “Something about knowing what it felt like to have broken bones, because I’d been your slave.”
“You were never my slave,” I said flatly. Once upon a time, a statement like that from her would have had me call my therapist immediately and book a session. Once upon a time, I would have been staggered and saddened at the immense disconnect between us. “All I ever wanted was a wife, Andrea.”
She didn’t answer; she was probably lost in her own slave fantasy. How I’d now pull my belt out and beat her as punishment. I didn’t care. I was starting to understand why Lisa had run. The day I’d pulled her over her desk and spanked her till she told me about her ex-Dom, I’d had a sense that she hadn’t told me everything. There was a wound from her past that Andrea’s careless words had reopened.
“Why are you here?” I asked finally. I knew I was going to regret asking, but I asked anyway. Evidently, there was a deep masochism in me that eight years of marriage hadn’t cured.
“I saw you last night,” she said, “and I realized that I miss you, master. Do you ever wish things had been different between us?”
My answer would have always been no. I didn’t wish things were different. Andrea was in the past. We’d both made that choice many years ago. I had moved on. But even if that hadn’t been the case, the one word she used showed that nothing had really changed. She still called me Master. For eight years, I had hoped she’d just call me Patrick. That she’d assert herself, show me something of who she really was, instead of pretending she was whoever I wanted her to be.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. Go home, Andrea.”
My thoughts were already on Lisa. I needed her to talk to me.
***
A prickle of disquiet ran through me. Something about Andrea. Something was wrong. Andrea was many things, but she’d always been faithful. Coming here would be a huge violation by her standards. She was in a relationship, being naked on my coffee table wasn’t something I would have thought she was capable of. I took another sip of my whiskey as I pondered that. Then, finally, I picked up my phone and dialed a familiar number. Her father. John
Matherson.
“John, it’s Patrick,” I identified myself.
“Patrick,” John’s voice boomed on the other end of the line. My lips twitched, despite myself. John was the exact opposite of Andrea – full of life and vigour and personality.
“Do you know who your daughter is dating now?” I asked him.
I could hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Patrick, you think she tells me anything? Why do you ask?”
“She was here today,” I admitted. “Andrea. Something’s off. Nothing she said really, just an instinct.” Andrea was a nice, tempting target for someone unscrupulous. Her craving for submission weakened her.
He sighed again. “I’ll look into it. Thanks Patrick.”
“No worries, John,” I said easily. Despite my acute annoyance and irritation with Andrea, I didn’t wish her actual harm. John had resources. He would intervene and check it out. And if this Liam guy was trouble, well, John would put a stop to that.
We made plans to grab drinks the following week, and then I hung up. I stared at the phone for a couple of seconds, and this time, I dialed a number that had, in a few short weeks, become extremely important to me. Lisa.