Brightness, Contrast and the Horizontal Hold
When her relationship cools, Dana gets the picture
I've always had a big mouth, both literally and figuratively. On the literal
side, my mouth is more than accommodating and my Dom had, in a weak moment of
confession, admitted how alluring he found my 'blow job' lips. On the figurative
side, I've always loved communicating, even if it was in my inimitable smart-ass
way. The 'full disclosure' aspect of BDSM-the fact that I was always expected to
reveal my innermost thoughts to my Dom, whether or not I felt he'd appreciate
them or punish me for them-was one of the elements of the lifestyle that seemed
to fit me to a T. But on one sunny morning in June, my predilection for
speaking my mind and revealing my desires was about to lead to my undoing.
It had been awhile since he'd been in town, on business and we'd last played-too
long, in fact, but then again, an hour seemed like too long when it came to
being with him. He promised a special day, filled with surprises...and I had
pictured myself enduring a long, unrelenting session before traipsing back home
to my husband and family. While my marriage was open, I worked hard not to rub
Hubby's nose in it, so an occasional afternoon off from work and in my beloved
Dom's arms always seemed to work best...discreet, fulfilling and no one got
hurt, at least with any lasting marks.
We had agreed to meet at 10:00am in his hotel room and overeager as usual, I was
there at 9:45am. He knew me well enough to anticipate this and came to the door
with his crop in hand. Somehow, the implement complemented his style-tan skin,
rugged features, with wavy salt-and-pepper hair that only made him look more
handsome as he'd grown older. His overall demeanor reflected sophistication,
seasoning, someone who'd seen and experienced much of what life had to offer.
And one glance at him, standing there like that, tapping the crop into his palm,
made me want to show him what I had to offer.
Without a word, we embraced and became locked into ten minutes of unending
kissing and becoming reacquainted. I felt the brush of the crop as he ran his
hands down my back as well as the growing bulge in his pants. Then he slowly
pulled away, put the crop in his mouth, and used both hands to to turn me around
and forcibly press me against the wall.
"15...one for each minute you were early...where would they hurt most?"
I've never minded the crop; it's always gotten me in the zone and so I was not
reluctant to answer. "My butt and my back," I said, a smirk on my face.
"Liar," he answered, with the hint of amusement in his voice. It's what I loved
about him-he so enjoyed his work. He believed there should be joy in it all and
so while he was strict, it was ultimately always in a playful way. "You know and
I know that you're far beyond that. So it falls to me to decide...spread your
legs...about two feet apart."
I complied and without skipping a beat, I felt the crop graze my inner thigh
slightly before being lifted and then coming down with full force. I gritted my
teeth and clenched my fists to take the pain, knowing full well that any
physical reaction or movement to the punishment would result in it doubling, a
testament to his love of submissive self-restraint. He decided to concentrate on
the thighs, moving from the insides to the back and then down to the underside
of my knees.
"Boy, I'd hate to see how you'd greet me if you'd been away for six months," I
quipped once he'd finished, fighting stoically not to collapse from the sting.
"Okay, an extra five strokes for the smart-ass sub who's bright enough to know
when to keep her mouth shut."
Damn! They were harder than the others. I winced. I endured.
Finally, I heard the crop drop and I felt him press behind me, his body warm and
forceful against my back. "Nice work, Beauty," he whispered. I smiled. Beauty
was a nickname he used in homage to the Beauty trilogy; he always called me that
when I'd pleased him. When displeased, he used other names. Or worse, didn't
speak at all. Those were the times I dreaded most.
"Remind me," he teased, his breath hot in my ear as I fought the urge to turn
around and face him, "how would you most like me to enjoy you today, Beauty?"
"Wax," I whispered back, yearning mixed with discomfort, as it always disquieted
me to consider my desires over his in scene.
"Wax...right. Well I have a nice surprise for you, love." I felt his body pull
from mine, leaving my back suddenly chilled. I heard him step back. "You're free
to turn and walk with me to the bed."
He had me lead the way as I stepped from the hallway of the suite to the room at
the back. I loved the El Dorado, the hotel his company always sprung for when he
visited New York. To outsiders, it seemed like any four-star cosmopolitan hotel.
But those in the scene knew it as BDSM-friendly, but done in the subtlest of
ways. First, each accommodation was a suite, which meant extra play space,
additional possibilities, and an extra room to act as a sound buffer between us
and the room next door. Plus, while each bedroom featured four-poster beds, for
those who knew to request it, some rooms had these beds equipped with eyeholes
running the length of each side-excellent for varied bondage play. But, best of
all was room service: should you have forgotten any necessary "equipment" at
home, the concierge arranged to purchase and deliver whatever was necessary from
"Strapped for Cash", a dungeon/erotic toy store located behind a seemingly
innoculous storefront two doors down.
My heart jumped as I entered the bedroom. Four candles of different sizes and
colors were waiting on the bed stand, a matchbook by their side and leather
restraints already attached to each of the bed's four posters.. "I can't believe
you rememb--," I started but he cut me off as he walked out of the room. You
know the drill," he said and left me to my business.
I quickly discarded my white blouse and short black skirt (the standard "O"
dress that he demanded whenever I saw him) which left me naked since he'd
forbidden the use of bras, hose or panties in his presence. "Gets in the way,
slows things down," he'd explained when we first started playing and he'd read
me the rules. His rules. Now my rules.
I positioned myself carefully on the bed so that attaching me to those
restraints would be as effortless as possible for him. "Tell me..." I asked as
he walked back in a few minutes later, a small black duffle bag in his hand.
"...were all of your subs as accommodating as I am when it came to being bound?"
"No..." he said in a somewhat offhand manner, as he set the bag down on the
bureau, unzipping it to check its comments. Then he turned to face me and walked
towards the bed, continuing, "...which explains why they're not here and you
are." Our eyes met in a moment of mutual understanding, anticipation, gratitude
that we'd found each other and were finally together again. Those looks, when
they came, were alone worth the cost of admission.
He proceeded to run his hand from my hip down to my right ankle, studying my
leg's reaction to his touch and secured the first cuff restraint. Same with the
left. I always loved the feeling of my legs spread wide apart by the restraints
and, as always, I pulled against the cuffs to feel the lack of give. Heaven.
Then, another warm touch as he surveyed the skin from my shoulder to my right
wrist, followed by a swift yank that brought my body up to the cuff. He always
bought short restraints, ones with very little space between the wrist or ankle
cuffs and the bed attachment, to inflict maximum stretch. He pulled on each
limb, testing, making sure that everything was as tight as he wanted it to be.
Another thing we both agreed upon-minimal wiggle room, just enough to show the
slightest bit of writhing under duress.
It had taken three months for him to return to New York but here he was, and
here I finally was, prone, vulnerable and with an orgasm soon to come. "Wax,
wax, wax," I chanted happily, waiting for him to light the match.
"Not so fast, love," he said. "You're not 'getting' the wax. You've got to earn
it. And we've got a long way to go until that happens, sweetheart. Today, the
plan is to have you stretch a few limits as well as your limbs. So relax."
His words gave birth to my patented pout, which he patently ignored as he
brought the bag from the bureau to the bed, reached in and pulled out a ball
gag. He knew how I hated gags so he headed me off at the pass. "Show me your
safe sign," he said in a sort of baby-talk, as if talking to a three year old
or a puppy he wanted to have perform. I shot him a dirty look and violently
threw my head to the right and then the left three times. "Good girl. Now you've
shown me again so you can be sure that even though you won't be able to speak,
I'll know if things go too far. Just remember the safe sign rule...only
when...?"
"Only when necessary," I signed, like a teenager who'd had to listen for the
thousandth time to her father's reminder to be home by 10pm. Utterly resigned, I
opened wide and he inserted the ball and pulled the straps tight. Now my jaw was
pulled as far apart as the rest of my body, much to his liking, I was sure.
Then he surprised me by unfastened both ankle cuffs. "We know they're positioned
right so now I need you to pull your knees up to your chest for a bit. Would you
do that for me, love?" I nodded in the affirmative and performed as directed.
Next, he went back into the bag and pulled out some lubricant and a small black
butt plug, something else that's not exactly on my hit list. "Now, you know how
you tend to clench, dear," he said in a overly paternalistic manner. "This
little helper will stop all that. It'll leave you free to really experience all
the day has to offer, and that's what we really want, isn't it?"
"Mmm...grr..mmmummm," I grunted and cursed from behind the gag, knowing how
useless it would be, as he dipped the plug in Astroglide and then guided it
slowly but quite deeply into my helpless asshole. Though he was being gentile
about it, working it in as easily as he could, I moaned from the invasion. I
knew that once he reattached the ankle cuffs, I'd be stretched and stuffed in
almost every way possible...every way, I thought, except for one. And that, I
was certain, wasn't far behind.
"Relax, love...you're really going to love this part," he said, pulling a long
stretch of braided purple cord from the bag. "Keep your butt up," he said, as he
pulled the cord underneath me horizontally. "Now down, knees bent, soles down."
He then proceeded to tie the cord around my pelvis, like a makeshift belt. He
knotted a second cord so it hung from the first and pulled it down toward the
bed. "One more time, butt up," he said and I tilted my pelvis up so he could
pull the second cord underneath me, this time vertically. "Now down." He pulled
the cord through my legs, forcing it between my butt cheeks and against the butt
plug and then hard against my clit as he slipped inbetween my labia lips and
then tied it to the front of the belt. "Work it a little, make sure it's
positioned right," he commanded and I complied, feeling the peals of pleasure as
if they were chords from a favorite song.
"Legs back in position, please." He reattached the ankle cuffs. I tried working
the clit cord again, just to make sure I had enough give to produce the desired
result. Happily, I did. He watched as I struggled, as much for his amusement as
for mine. He smiled, bent over and put his lips to my ear and whispered
ominously, "Enjoy it while you can."
A moment of silence as he went back, rummaging through his bag of tricks. "Now
the main event!" he announced gleefully, as proud of himself as a six-year-old
who had just completed his first model airplane, and out he pulled the most
unique contraption I'd ever seen. Made out of material that looked like metal
clothes hangers, but twice as thick, it resembled the skeleton of a bra. It
looked like something that had come out of a medieval torture chamber, or
Madonna's closet during the 80s. The curves of the "cups" were made of four
wires that met where the nipple would be, but higher, and forming a type of
four-prong clamp. On each side of the "cups" were two wires that led to small
rectangular plates where the bra claps would normally have been-reassuring in
that while the "bra" would be held in place securely, I wouldn't have wire ends
cutting into my skin. Still and all, it made me feel decidedly uneasy.
He hummed away as he pushed and kneaded and positioned my breasts into the
"cups". It was a tight fit all around and he pulled each nipple high, so that
each one was hard and about an inch from where the clamps met. "Perfect!" he
exclaimed, and then kissed me on the forehead. "Be right back love...just know,
you look incredible. And at least one of us is really going to enjoy what's
coming next," he said as he turned and headed back out of the bedroom.
Now that I was alone, naked but for my metal makeshift brassiere, I heard a
strange pounding in the kitchen but ignored it, instead using the opportunity to
attempt to pull in every direction, just to see if I could free my breasts in
any way whatsoever, or at least. squeeze out the butt plug, until I realized
that ironically, as pleasurable as the clit cord was, it held the dual
responsibility of keeping the butt plug firmly in place.
I hadn't noticed that the noise had stopped and he'd reentered the room and was
watching, studying his work and my struggle. He was naked now, except for his
underpants, already bulging with anticipation. "Ahem," he said, clearing his
throat, waiting for my reaction to his return. It was then, through the glare
I'd thrown him, that I noticed what was in his hands. The protests that started
forming from behind my gag were so violent, they almost dislodged the ball. In
his hands, he held an ice bucket.
Much to his fascination, we'd learned early in our relationship that while I
could tolerate, and even appreciate whips and crops and floggers and clamps, ice
was one of the few things that brought me to tears. It was a soft limit, true,
but it pushed the edge. "No, no, no," I tried to say but it came out,
"nnn...nnn...nnnn". It wouldn't have mattered anyway. He never paid attention to
"no". That's what safewords are for, he'd said long ago. And safewords were only
for a dire emergency. They ended scenes, and thus, ended his pleasure. A
definite no no if you ever expected to see him again.
He set the bucket on the bed stand and addressed me, this time more seriously.
"Dana, today's lesson is that of contrasts. Hot versus cold. Release versus
restraint. Pain versus pleasure. And most importantly, protest versus
acceptance. I want you as still as possible through this, Dana. No clenching,
no pulling, no trying to deny the inevitable. Learn to welcome it. Make peace
with it. Otherwise, this is going to be a lot more unpleasant than it has to
be." He reached into the bag and pulled out a cane and a second crop. He held
them up so they were in my direct view. "The crop is for good behavior, the cane
for bad. I'd try to be good if I were you. I've had a hard week and it wouldn't
take much to make me use the cane, if disobeyed. Understood?"
I nodded slowly, realizing that no movement and no pulling meant no rubbing
against the cord, no release for the throbbing knot my clit had become from a
combination of cord stimulation, anticipation and fear.
He pulled out a rubber glove, apparently to protect his skin, and then dipped it
into the ice bucket and pulled out a large, somewhat jagged edged chunk of ice,
one that was about three times the size of an average cube. It was then that I
realized what the banging had been in the kitchen; he'd been breaking up a chunk
of ice.
He set it on my belly button, immediately setting every one of my nerves on
edge. It burned in the most excruciating way. He then took a magic marker from
the bedside table and drew a wide circle around the ice in green ink. There was
perhaps two inches from the ice to the circle's border. "If the ice moves
outside the circle or the ink runs, you get the cane. So I'd stay very, very
still if I were you."
This was hopeless, I thought. Even if I don't move, the ice as it melted would
drip, smudge the circle's perimeter, move on its own. I could only pray he'd
make allowances for all that, in the name of good sportsmanship and the
attainment of his higher purpose.
He smiled, his mood turning less serious, and there was a mischievous twinkle in
his eye as his glance turned to my metal bra. Suddenly, I had an inkling of what
was to come, and I was filled with terror, terror that I fought to contain
without movement. He slowly reached into the bucket and pulled out another chunk
of ice and held it above my imprisoned chest. Using his ungloved hand, he
adjusted the clamps above the left "cup" to accommodate the ice chunk and hold
it tight in place, pressing deep into my nipple, turning it hard and cold. It
was almost unbearable. Another dip into the bucket produced another chunk,
equally menacing, which he affixed it to the right side. I knew that because
they were positioned so low, it would take a while before it melted sufficiently
to free my nipple, and even then, the freezing drips of melting ice would
torture me long into the session.
He slipped off his pants, sat in the easy chair facing the bed, and started to
stroke himself as he watched me working through my icy ordeal. He could see,
through the look on my eyes, that it took every bit of my focus, my energy, my
concentration, to hold still and take what he was giving, albeit from afar. And
the more my eyes pleaded with him, the more intensely he studied my dilemma, the
more deadpan his expression, the faster he stroked. Then, as I thought he might
climax, he stopped, got up and walked back toward me.
"There's just one thing missing, Dana...one thing that's going to complete my
pleasant picture of you." He took one last piece of ice, a smaller one this
time, and walked down to the middle of the bed. Suddenly, I knew where it was
going. I wanted to scream out, to beg for mercy. But how could I? I was
stretched to the limits, couldn't move even a smidgen or the ice inside the
circle would move...my senses were torn in a dozen different directions. He
nudged the cord aside, freeing access to my cunt...rubbed the ice for a moment
against my clit and then inserted this last frigid, unyielding intruder.
And that was all it took. The cold that was so cold, it almost felt like I was
on fire.
I felt the sides of my cunt cling to this artic enemy, as if they would fuse
together forever.
Unable to withstand this final abuse, I bucked violently, using all the give I
had, and forcing the encircled ice cube off of my belly and flying over the side
of the bed. "Take it out, take it out," I tried to scream from behind the gag,
but what came out was unintelligible. And still, I did not use the safe sign.
Instead, I begged with my eyes, "Slow down...just a little...let me get through
this to please you. It's been so long since I've had you...please go easier on
me." But apparently he wasn't interested in reading my eyes, much less in
slowing down. His pleasure had been interrupted. And he was not at all pleased.
He grabbed the cube, repositioned it on my belly, and reached for the cane. I
could see the anger in his eyes and I knew I was about to feel it as well.
"Five this time Dana...and I'm going easy. Damn it, I know how you hate this
thing. I know you're really going to hate it even more when you're forcing
yourself to take it without flinching.But I'd do it if I were you. Otherwise,
it's going to be ten more. And that much longer before we get to the wax."
I wanted to whimper, to scream, to fight, to escape. But that was going to get
me nowhere fast, I knew. So instead, I steadied myself, and turned inward,
trying to concentrate on the lesson he was attempting to teach. I searched
myself, struggling to find the calmness, the serenity that I needed to accept
his ministrations. I knew that, if only he'd use the wax, the wax...its ensuing
endorphin rush, would bring the numbness to me easily, quickly. But here, now,
without the wax, I had to summon it up from inside.
And as the first whoosh of the cane came down onto my thigh, all I could hear in
my mind, over and over again like a mantra, was that old cliche that we all tend
to discount, "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it..."
