He took me by the hand and walked me to the bed, then turned me and urged me to sit. My heart skipped a few beats when he pulled his turtleneck off — black hair, eyes the shimmery dark green of a mallard’s feathers, chiseled face, those broad shoulders, a well-defined chest, and abs of fucking steel. Perfection.
“Permission to look at your chest instead of your eyes, Master Abbott?” I was testing him a bit, since I was already looking at his chest, and since I wasn’t saying it exactly respectfully.
“Permission granted, and I’ll give you a little leeway tonight, but don’t think you’ll always be able to do first and then ask.”
“Of course, Master Abbott.”
“Grasp your hands behind your back, please.”
I complied, and figured I should look back into his eyes again, as well.
“Very nice.” He lifted and held my breasts, one in each hand, and I continued looking into his eyes even though he was now focused on my chest. After spending my teens and early twenties with barely a B cup, I can now fill a C, but I’m still not exactly well endowed. His thumbs scraped across my nipples and I wanted to close my eyes, but I held eye contact. He’d alternately look down to watch what he was doing and then look back up into my eyes. I didn’t dare look away.
“I’m going to hurt you now, Kirsten. Please keep your hands clasped behind your back.”
My breath caught, and then I inhaled deeply as he pinched both nipples at the same time and blood surged into my clit. My right leg came up for a few seconds, knee bent and aimed a little left, but I put it down as soon as I realized what I’d done.
Abbott continued with the same pressure, looking into my eyes as he hurt me. It wasn’t excruciating, I could easily take it, and I never wavered from eye contact. His eyes went dark and he squeezed a bit more, checked me, and then
twisted
. I gasped and moaned, but I was still doing okay, though I was beginning to wish I hadn’t agreed to the no-direct-genital-contact thing. He let go of my left nipple and leaned forward to kiss me again — slow, easy, languorous — while he held the same tension on the right nipple.
Merely along for the ride, I was lost in sensations as he intensified the kiss, pinched harder, and twisted at the same time. I gasped into his mouth and he pulled back and let go. “I’d like you to crawl to the other side of the room and open the middle drawer of the table, remove the rope and the clover clamps, and return to me on all fours.”
I must have looked at him with trepidation because he said, “I will not restrain your arms or legs, nor will I tie you to anything, because it wouldn’t be safe on an airplane.” His voice became a little more terse as he added, “I’m giving you a lot of latitude until we can build up a little trust, but I will not always explain myself. Now, please either do as I’ve said or give your safeword, Kirsten.”
Crawling may be humiliating to some, but to me it’s one of those ultimate statements of who’s in charge. Much as I’d had a hard time kneeling for him, my psyche protested the very idea of crawling for him, while my body couldn’t wait to comply.
I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to the table, aware my bottom — only partially covered by my panties — was on full display. If I were naked, my pussy would be, but now he’d get a view of the shape under the shiny silk, which I knew some men found sexier than seeing a bare pussy. At first, anyway.
He hadn’t given instructions to remain on all fours, so I went to one of my most attractive kneeling postures, with my butt on my feet and my back arched, to open the drawer and retrieve the length of dark-purple silk rope. I faced three sets of clamps, but only one pair were clover clamps, and I grasped them in my other hand, closed the drawer, and turned as I went back to all fours.
Crawling with something in your hands means lowering yourself to knees and elbows, which I did as gracefully as possible, my eyes on his feet as I returned.
I knew he liked eye contact, but craning my neck to look at his face wouldn’t be graceful or easy, and I was thankful he didn’t push the issue. When I reached him, I went back to my knees, lifted both arms as I opened my hands and offered the items to him on open palms, once again giving him the eye contact he’d asked for.
“Beauty, grace, and perfect submission,” he said as he stroked down the side of my hair, his fingers caressing my throat as he reached it. I kept my head up, allowing him access despite my instincts screaming at me to lower my head and protect this vulnerable area. “You make me want to test your training, but we’ll save it for another day.” He dropped his hand and ordered, “You may rise to your feet to get on the bed. Please lie on your back with your arms under you. I don’t want you uncomfortable, so adjust yourself until you can remain in place in relative comfort. “
I did so, and nodded to him when I was settled. He reached across to my left breast and began wrapping the rope around the base of my breast. It hurt from the first loop, and I gritted my teeth and prepared to take it. Knowing he could smell my pain as well as my arousal, and yet continued binding my breast tighter and tighter, made my hips move involuntarily with need.
When satisfied with my left breast, he went across my right chest, behind my neck, and back down from the left side of my neck to my right breast and began wrapping it. I was wiggling my toes, moving my feet, and humping the air at this point. The pain was bearable, but it felt like my breasts were swelling and on fire and trapped. Compressed.
For me, pain is just another sensation. As long as no damage is being done I can accept the pain and experience the sensations without having to fight it. Pain is supposed to be your body’s way of warning you of damage. Pain tells you to lift your hand from the hot stove before your hand burns up. Pain tells you if you suck at roller skating you should stop doing it. Pain keeps you from doing more damage to your arm if you’ve already broken the bone in it.
But when administered under conditions where you can be sure of no damage, pain is just another sensation and the drugs your body releases can be downright addictive. Subspace is hard to explain to people who’ve never experienced it, and the best I’ve managed is to describe it as a floaty kind of bliss, where the pain becomes pleasure, pure sensory input, and you hunger for more. Once you reach subspace, you aren’t necessarily craving more pain, but more sensation.
So, I lay quietly while someone painfully bound my breasts in rope, because the pain both hurt and felt good, and while parts of me might be protesting, the rest of me didn’t want it to stop. My clit was throbbing, my pussy empty, and it was all I could do to keep from planting my feet on the bed and thrusting my hips into the air. As it was, I was pushing a few inches up into the emptiness because I couldn’t stop the involuntary muscles.
When Abbott finished he stopped to admire his work. I looked down to see my breasts weren’t turning red yet, and was both surprised and disappointed, as they felt as if they should be purple by now. Why the hell did it hurt so bad if they were staying the right color? If it hurt this bad it should
look
like it hurt, dammit. I wanted some sort of visual proof of how tightly they felt they were bound.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Kirsten.”
“When I looked at them I expected them to be turning colors already, Sir. I’m trying to make it make sense in my head — as bad as this hurts, they should be well on the way to purple.”
I couldn’t decipher his smile — not exactly cocky, but perhaps close. My heart skipped again as he lifted the nipple clamps, though.
“You’re familiar with these, my darling?”
“Yes, Master Abbott. They aren’t so bad when they first go on, but every time you tug on them they tighten a little more.”
“That’s right.” He laid them between my breasts and moved his finger up to my mouth before saying, “Open.”
I opened my mouth and he touched my lower lip, then my bottom teeth, and finally my tongue. “Pleasure my finger. Make me imagine what it will be like when you have other parts of my body inside that smart little mouth of yours. Use your tongue, there you go. Oh yes, that’s nice.”
I’m not sure why I expected him to taste different, but other than being cooler than a human, he tasted about the same… a little salty, and
good
. I alternated between my tongue and lips, licking a while, then sucking, and occasionally sucking and licking.
He certainly knew how to cement the Dom and sub roles. Lying here, having to use self-restraint to keep my arms behind me, with my breasts bound tightly, and now his finger in my mouth — I was both fighting my submissive nature and at the same time needing to be here. Meanwhile, I wished it was his cock in my mouth, not his finger.
“Please pull your right arm from behind your back.”
His iron fingers wrapped around my wrist as it appeared, and he placed my hand on the outside of his pants, over his cock. I wrapped my fingers around him and sucked harder on the finger in my mouth. He was way bigger around than he should’ve been. It was hard to tell through his pants, but I didn’t think I’d be able to touch my fingers to each other when wrapped around him.
“Make your hand match what your mouth is doing.”
I may get ticked when people give me orders in real life, but in bed, Abbott’s orders were driving me crazy, and I concentrated on making my hands mimic my tongue and mouth as much as possible. His hand drifted to my inner thighs, and he teased his way to the edge of my panties.
My hips moved and he groaned as I felt his cock pulse in my hands, and I groaned in response. Damn,
why
had I wanted to hold off on sex?
The fingers on my inner thighs slid across my satin panties, fingers moving and scissoring to the right and left of my clit, outside of both my labia and panties, and now my hips began moving in earnest and my moans turned to high pitched pleas. I was terrified the captain would come on and tell us to take our seats when I was so close, so I didn’t hold anything back.
His fingers abandoned my clit, and seconds later a clip went on my right nipple, then left, and I was reminded of my bound and swollen breasts as I squealed in pain and bliss.
His fingers returned to my clit, applying pressure over the top, and I knew I needed to explain to him I wasn’t normal, but didn’t want to give up the finger in my mouth to talk.
Besides, what he was doing at the moment was working, and the stimulation of his fingers, combined with the pressure of the rope around my breasts, and now the clips on my super-sensitive engorged nipples, and… oh
god
.
He reached up and pulled the chain between the clamps, tightening them, and I lost track of keeping my hand and mouth in synch, but quickly refocused as I breathed through all of the sensations.
His hand returned to my clit, pressing in from the outside without a lot of movement, and without warning I was millimeters away from an orgasm. Whether through smell or body language, he knew, and ordered, “Come for me, Kirsten.”
He removed his finger from my mouth and leaned down to kiss me as he once again pulled the nipple clamp chain, his other hand pressing the area around my clit. The pain was excruciating and I screamed into his kiss as I was overtaken by a violent orgasm, and I writhed and twisted on the bed as the spasms made my spine crack from my tailbone to the bottom of my ribcage, and still the orgasm was in control — a climax without end. My hips gyrated, the hand on his cock opened so I wouldn’t squeeze, but I managed to keep my palm touching him. I fought to keep my other arm behind my back, and my spine arched as he once again pulled up on the chain between the nipple clamps.
Still, he kissed me, his mouth controlling mine. Owning me.
Just as I thought my orgasm might finally fade, the clamps were pulled off and I once again screamed into his mouth as my body was lost to the pleasure, bliss, pain, and wonder of his fingers, mouth, and tongue.
He let me come down this time, and as the last of my orgasm rolled through my body, he released my breasts from their bondage. Before I could count to five, he’d gently unwrapped both with his super vamp speed, and he was lying beside me on the bed. He rolled me to my side and spooned behind me, his hand around my stomach. Once I was breathing normally again he kissed my shoulder and neck and said, “Thank you, what a lovely gift, the gift of your submission. I am honored.”
“Abbott, I....” Oh, what the heck. “You’re welcome. And thank you for an incredible orgasm. But, unless I missed it, I don’t think you got off. Are you okay?”
“I’m perfect, there will be time for my pleasure later.”
I rolled to my back and looked him in the eye. “You’re a scoundrel, but you already know that, don’t you?”
He grinned at me. “Define scoundrel, please?”
“In your case, someone who holds back his trump card until he has the poor female all wilty so she can’t possibly tell him what to do with his trump card when he finally plays it.”
“And my trump card would be....”
“Your Dom voice. And Dom kiss. But mainly the voice.”
“Ah, well then, I guess I’m guilty as charged. But really, I just waited to use it until I thought you were ready to hear it, so I’m not sure it makes me a scoundrel.”
“Thank you for creating a situation where I knew things wouldn’t go farther than I was comfortable. It was incredibly thoughtful.”
He kissed the top of my head and pulled me to him a little more. “You are most welcome. I hope to eventually have you to a place you trust me no matter what happens. I know it will take time, and until it happens I’ll make sure there are boundaries in place you can trust. I can be a harsh and demanding Master, but I hope you always know you’re cherished even as you writhe under me and try your best to take the pain I will inflict upon you.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I kind of got that point tonight.”
“Are you disappointed you did not get spanked?”
This not being able to skirt around the truth thing was going to be a pain. I never lied to Master James, but I’d been known to give partial truths to other Doms, especially if I knew they weren’t likely to be around long enough for them to need to know everything they asked.