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Subject: {ASSM} RP Of Sand and Pipers by Rachael Ross (M/F, BDSM, Spank, Suspension,  Clamping, Stretching/Size, Hot Wax, Pie)
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Of Sand and Pipers
by Rachael
Copyright 2004 Rachael Ross all right reserved. Intended for adults
only. This text may be archived/reposted to free public access
provided the author's name, email rache696@yahoo.com and this notice
appear in the message body. This story may or may not be fictional in
portion or entirety; any resemblance to persons and events are subject
to discretionary interpretation by the reader. No fee or service has
ever been provided to the author for this document, or for product
placement. No animals were harmed in the making of this document
except Fred Durst when I told him I had no intention of paying for my
use of lyrics from "Rearranged" used without permission.

Story codes: M/F, BDSM, Spank, Suspension, Clamping, Stretching/Size,
Hot Wax, and a little Pie
This story is told First Person/Present Tense...But it's still pretty
good. Try it for three minutes. If you're not hooked, I'll give you
your money back. Completely Satisfied might be pushing it.

Please Note: That I have finally edited and proofed this story (it
only took me 4 years to get around to it) and so what you have here is
the new and slightly improved version of the original. It has been
edited for spelling and grammar, not content other than to clarify a
few things. So yeah, you still get the full ride. When I wrote this
story originally I was...How should I put this? Pretty fucked up. -rr
29 June 2008

=1=2=3=4=5=6=7=8=9=0=

Of Sand and Pipers
by Rachael



Negotiating over pie. He wants to meet me someplace safe, someplace
public. Where I can run if I have to. Where I can scream and help will
come. Is there such a place I wonder? And if there was, would I really
want to go there? No, inside I wouldn't. But I'm the new me. I have a
new respect for myself, a new appreciation for what I may become, if
not exactly for who I am. Denny's, the one on Martin Luther King Way.
The one in the bad part of town; that's where I'm going.

And why am I doing this I wonder for the umpteenth time. I have a
boyfriend. I'm happy with him, aren't I? He doesn't hurt me. Not
anymore, he's being good. Hurt is bad, pain is good. Like a mantra.
Hurt is bad, pain is good. That's what I've gotten from five years of
psychotherapy and I'm going to throw it all away. No big loss, is it?
This one wants to hurt me, he told me so. But he's willing to
negotiate over pie.

Maybe he won't like me. There's always that, although neither of us
believes it. We've spent too much time talking and found too many
things in common. The question of me liking him never came up, at
least not to me. Not until now. How easy it is to slip into the old
me. I stand in front of my mirror, naked and twisting and turning, and
admiring how she still fits. I imagine I can see the old cuts; the old
scars when they were fresh and new. The soft scabs that washed away in
the bathtub, leaving soft pink and white baby flesh beneath. I miss
that. I haven't cut myself in six months. The last time was November
twelfth. It was the last time I made love to myself.

Riding the bus, always the bus. Riding with old people and punks, and
ordinary people moving through their miserable pathetic little lives.
They're beautiful, fascinating, and I stare at them one by one, never
seeing them before and wondering if I'll ever see them again. They're
uncomfortable and hating my bad manners. All except the punks. They
stare back. One pushes out his tongue and laughs and I smile,
spreading my fingers in a V across my lips and slipping my own pink
wet tongue out in turn. A year ago I would have let him fuck me, sport
fucking on the bus. Just to do it and hate myself later when I could
bask in my self-loathing. But now I'm the new me. He gets up and sits
down next to me with his friends teasing him, urging him on. The creak
of his heavy leather jacket and the smell of the forty he's still
holding in a paper bag fill my senses.

"Wanna party?" he asks, looking down my open coat.

"With you?" I turn around and look over his shoulder. "Or them?"

"Us baby. That's my cousins," he looks at me a minute and I don't
talk, just look back at him.

"Come on, gonna be ripe. You love it," he's touching me now, his hand
on my leg, squeezing me.

"I already gotta date, can't fall down. Sorry," I smile at him,
knowing he's not happy. Not after the tongue thing.

"Aww, fuck that guy. He ain't here. He's makin' you ride the fuckin'
bus? Fuck that guy," he takes a drink of his beer and offers it to
me.

He's cute; never hit a girl in his life I bet. Harmless. He should get
it tattooed on his chest. "You got a tattoo?" I ask, ignoring the
beer.

"What?" he looks at me. "No. Why? You got one?"

"Yeah. I got 'Harmless' tattooed on my ass," I laugh though and it
spoils the joke, but he doesn't get it anyway.

"Yeah? Slice bitch, why'd you do that?" he's laughing too. "Lemme see
it!"

'No! I ain't gonna show you my ass." I look out the window wondering
where we're at. "Hey, where we at?" I ask the driver loudly. He tells
me 43rd, getting close.

"You lie. You ain't got no tat anyway!" the punk sneers.

I push the button and the bell rings and I stand up unsteadily,
looking down at him. I slip my purse over my shoulder and lean against
the chrome rail as the bus slows. I'm smiling, hooking my thumbs in
the front of my hipsters, pulling them down to the tops of my panties.
Hooking them too and pulling down so he can see my tattoo. 'Sin
Bravely' inked above my clit. Then I turn, I'm gone feeling good,
feeling free. I missed the city, missed my rides, and missed the
people. I'm falling in love all over again.

The Denny's is about five blocks up and probably I could have ridden
the bus another stop, but it was time to go. I need the walk anyway.
Past closed up shops with Vietnamese lettering. Little restaurants and
stores, and a 7-11 with three guys and a girl sitting on the curb.

I walk slowly; it's dark, old houses, old trees. A busy street, cars
rumble past with no mufflers and everything is real. I find myself
wishing it were raining. A night like this, a walk like this? It needs
rain to make it right. But the moon is out, bright and full, blocking
the stars with its brilliance. The ugly neon and artificial lights of
my destination loom ahead of me. I haven't thought about it, walking
automatically, thinking about other things. My heart is suddenly
beating a little harder. I'm nervous; this isn't some harmless kid on
a bus, is it?

There's a guy sitting on the ugly vinyl waiting couch. He looks like
his picture and he looks at me, smiling hopefully. He knows my
description, but I didn't send him a pic. He's standing; we're close
anyway, just coming through the doors brought us together.

"Lisa?"

"Hi, yeah, it's me," a self-conscious smile, a little roll of the
eyes. The usual, just little ol' me playing innocent for the waitress
standing there behind the cash register. Not for him, I tell myself.

He takes my hand in his and we shake briefly. No sparks, no
electricity running through me. Just a touch like any other. I'm
vaguely disappointed and wonder what he feels.

"Nice to meet you finally," he smiles and looks at me, the quick kind,
top to bottom and back. "Really nice."

At least he's not standing there with flowers and I accept it like the
compliment it is, with a little shrug and a smile, and we follow the
waitress wordlessly to a booth next to a big picture window covered up
with signs. Sitting opposite each other, he slips off his jacket.

"I need to powder my nose, I'll be right back," I catch the waitress
as she turns around. "Where is it?" I ask. She tells me and I give him
a look and go.

Part of me likes this little tease, knowing he's wondering if I'm
bailing already. But all I want to do is check myself. I wonder what I
look like suddenly and the prospect frightens me a little. But it's
not too bad. I free my hair and brush it, letting it fall loose. Some
new lipstick and I'm okay. I look for the new me in the mirror, but
she's gone. The old me is grinning back, licking her red lips and
urging me on.

I sit back down and watch his shoulders, they move and his whole
posture changes. He's glad to see me. It hadn't occurred to me that he
might have been gone. I wonder why.

"Well, you're still here!" I smile. "Thought I'd give you a chance to
get away." We both laugh, knowing that isn't the truth at all.

Negotiating over pie. I have a too rich chocolate cream thing with
Oreos and a cup of coffee. He has Dutch apple, with vanilla ice cream
on the side. It's warm and I watch his ice cream melt, a spreading
white puddle around the golden filling spilling out. Neither of us is
in a hurry to eat. I pick at mine slowly, little bits at a time. I mix
my cream and sugar into my coffee, watching it swirl into a wonderful
milky caramel color.

"I'd love to Top you," he says it, just like that.

Out of the blue. No talk about the weather, no meaningless chitchat
about school or pets. We both know what we like; we've talked about it
enough. Played it out in our minds half a dozen times together. So why
am I surprised?

"I can make it nice for you Lisa, all you have to do is trust me."

Trust. He's ruining it now, slipping up. Too early to bring up the T
word. I'm trying to remember my boyfriend's face, but all I can
remember are his hands. I stir my coffee absently, humming softly to
myself.

"Where at?" It's a bad question, not the one I meant to ask, but it's
out there now hanging in the air and pregnant with possibility.

"My place. West Seattle. Not too far," he's watching me intensely; I
can feel it even though I'm not looking at him. This is too fast, too
fast.

"I didn't really plan on anything but this, you know?" I look up and
he's nodding.

"Sure, sure. I understand. I'm just saying, you know...If you wanted,"
His voice is soft, sincere and gentle. I like it, I feel myself
responding to it. But I remind myself he's just saying what he's
supposed to, utterly predictable.

I sit there, wondering what to say. All the little things, the words
we say and listen to so we can form an opinion, a judgment, have
already been said in other places, remote places. He's forty-two,
divorced with a son nearly a year older than I am. He had a girlfriend
for five years, a little subbie all his own, but she's gone now. I'd
asked him before about why she left, but who can judge the truth? He'd
asked me why I'm looking, why I'm interested if things are so good
with my boyfriend? I told him the truth: I don't know.

You think that nothing is wrong until you're crying
Crying on me
And you think that life is along until you're dying
Dying on me
You think that everybody's the same
I don't think that anybody's like you

The song playing on the radio in the kitchen floats through the mostly
empty diner. It spurs me to speak, as if my voice might drown out
words that remind me of things I want to forget. Questions I don't
have answers to.

"Do you want to go?"

He looks at me, his face changing as he considers my words. "Only if
you do."

"No, it doesn't work like that," I tell him. My voice is cutting,
there's no room for ambiguous things. I'm not taking responsibility
for anyone but me right now. "It's a yes or no question. Do you want
to go?"

Part of me wonders if I'm testing him, trying to see if a small thing
like this will make him angry. I've done it before.

"Yes."

"Me too," I smile then, forgiving him, showing him that all I need is
clarity.

I've told him it's my thing, my fantasy, my goal. To be absolutely
understood. I think he's forgotten, or more likely he doesn't
understand how quickly my direction can change. I leave my pie
unfinished, my coffee cooling in the harsh glare of safety and follow
him out.

As we cross I-5 on our way to West Seattle I look at my reflection in
the glass. The old me, the new me, is there a difference? I'm
beginning to wonder and it seems foolish to think in those terms now,
sitting here with a stranger. I should have called someone, gotten his
address and left a message for my Dad, telling him where I'd be just
in case. That's the new me. The old me embraces the image of my father
pacing alone, wondering, waiting...Punished by my deliberate disregard
for his paternal instinct. Won't he be sorry? Oh yes, that old thought
like a familiar blanket wraps me up, keeps me warm.

"How do you want to play?" I wonder and this is negotiating after pie,
and so it's hardly a negotiation at all.

He keeps his eyes on the road. "What do you mean?"

"I mean rules. I mean safe things." Online I have no limits, something
we both took advantage of, found pleasure in. But not here, not
tonight.

He looks at me in the soft flicker of passing streetlamps, "Your
rules."

"Okay. 'Paris' means stop. Immediately. No yellow, green and red."

"Paris is red," he agrees. "No gags?"

"Not tonight," I'm pleased he said that, very pleased and it shows in
my voice. I looked at him, but he doesn't reply. "I stay awake at all
times, no electricity, nobody else gets to play...Just us."

"Of course, we'll be alone. I promise," he smiles a little, maybe
thinking how absurd it sounds suggesting that someone else might be
waiting for us. But I have to say it, just in case. "Anything else?"

"Nothing permanent. No piercing, or branding, or cutting my hair, or
whatever," I'm smiling now too. The excitement building up inside me.
My foot is tapping rapidly with nervous energy and I feel the rush
coming. "Do you have condoms?"

He laughs lightly, "At the risk of sounding optimistic, yes...I made a
point of picking some up. And some other things too." He glances at
me.

"Oh really? Mmmm...Surprises? For me?"

"Yeah, you'll see. I went to the hardware store," he says.

That makes me laugh. God, it feels good too. I'm finally starting to
relax; even my foot slows down. I'm doing the right thing, I'm sure of
it. I know my boyfriend too well, he's too predictable. I need a
change, something different and unexpected like this. I put my hand on
his thigh, sliding it slowly back and forth, moving closer so I can
lean on him while he drives. It's comfortable. When he parks the car
in front of his big old Victorian house, I look up at him. He turns
off the engine and I reach up to pull his mouth to mine. He kisses me
softly at first and then deeper, his tongue running across mine.

"Can I trust you?" I ask him softly, looking into his dark eyes. He
starts to answer but I shush him with another kiss, giving myself to
him. There's nothing he can say to convince, it has to come from
inside me, and I've already decided anyway.

His house is old, but well kept and resting atop of one of the many
steep hills in West Seattle. The decorations are simple, tasteful. It
feels cozy as he takes my coat and I sit down on the sofa, looking
around. He's in the kitchen, asking me if I'd like something to drink.
Wine, or beer, or...

"Just water, thanks," I answer him and I think it's a test.

He has a lot of photographs, beautiful landscapes in black and white,
framed on the living room walls.

"Are you an artist?" I ask. He hands me a tall glass of ice water and
sits down next to me. "Thanks"

"No, I'm a software engineer. I work for Zipper Interactive," he looks
at the walls too. "I just do that for fun, a hobby."

"They look...Lonely. There's no people."

"Hmmm..." he laughs nervously, because this is a personal thing and not
a hobby at all. "Yeah, I notice that too sometimes."

I set my glass down and start unbuttoning my blouse.

"I like them," I breathe the words and watch him watching me. I move
my fingers very slowly, deliberately for him. I'm unsure what he
expects, what he wants, so this is my demonstration, my act of
submission.

"You're beautiful, Lisa," he watches as I slip my blouse over my
shoulders, draping it on the arm of the couch. Sitting there in my
pants and bra. It's exciting to me, this simple thing, and I feel
suddenly nervous.

"Come with me," he stands and holds out his hand for me to take and I
follow him wordlessly. We pause as he unlocks a door and turns on the
lights, leading me into a wonderfully spacious room. He's smiling
expectantly, watching my face as I look around. It's like nothing I've
ever seen and I tell him so.

"Well, five years with a live-in submissive is a lot of time to get
things right. And my son's been gone for the last four, so I had a
chance to redecorate a little. This used to be a five bedroom house,
now there's only three."

He's very happy with the effect, I can tell, and I'm pleased as well.
I slip off my shoes carefully while he watches me. The carpet is red,
thick and warm under my feet; the wood paneling is real oak, stained
dark. The lights are soft and comfortable, arranged to split the large
room into smaller areas of focus. The whole adds to a luxuriant sense
of comfort and I can already feel it working to relax me.

A large wrought iron bed pushed against the far wall dominates the
room. Another door to the right is open and I can tell it leads to a
bathroom. There's a gymnast's pommel horse, or at least what used to
be one, sitting low, about waist high on a hardwood square beneath it.
I walk over to it, touching the cool smooth leather with my hand.
There are stirrups in the form of leather cuffs extending from behind,
and wrist cuffs lower and hanging from the front. A large leather belt
is strapped onto the curved back, with a silver ring attached in the
center. I finger it idly imaging what its purpose might be. It's a
beautiful corruption I think.

He follows me around the room, silently watching me. Hanging from the
ceiling I see a big heavy thing about 8 feet off the floor, with
chains looping through it, ending with a dull hook about eye level.

"What's this?" I ask. It smells faintly oily I push the metal hook and
watch it sway gently back and forth.

"It's a chain-fall. It's for lifting heavy," he looks at me and
smiles, "and not so heavy things."

I giggle a little, understanding at once and recalling images from the
Internet that flashed across my screen from time to time. There are
other things, simpler things. A large heavy wooden chair with
restraints bolted to the arms and legs. An antique armoire and a
matching dressing table, a vanity with a large 3-panel mirror atop it,
sit close to the bed. An out-of-place, but somehow appropriate
Japanese silkscreen creates a small dressing area nearby. I open the
left door of the armoire, exposing 3 shelves inside. There are a
myriad of toys and tools arrayed, arranged by preference I think more
than anything else. Nothing is haphazard.

"I'd like to give you a bath first," he says and I look at him.
"Undress here, in front of me. You can put your clothes in the top
left drawer." He points to the dresser and then turns to the bathroom,
disappearing even as the room itself illuminates, and soon enough I
hear the unmistakable sound of water running.

I set my shoes down on the floor and lay my purse on the vanity. I
remove my watch, rings, and earrings. There's a small velvet and satin
chair in front of it. I move it slightly and open the center drawer. I
find make-up; lipsticks and eye shadows and creams of many types and
brands. All of it new and apparently never used. I find myself
wondering, finding it a little odd he would have gone to so much
trouble just for me. I pick up a silver hair barrette and pin up my
hair, bunching it up quickly into a loose bun. I close the drawer and
open the others one at a time, women's clothing, lingerie and panties,
and fetish wears of different sizes and colors.

I'm pulling my pants down. They're tight and stretchy and I sit on the
chair as I work them off my feet one leg at a time. I'm only slightly
annoyed and they're my favorite pants.

"I hope you don't mind those things, I..." he's standing in the
bathroom doorway and seems unsure of what to say, as I've been caught
in an awkward moment.

I stand up in my panties and bra, folding my now docile pants loosely.

"It's a little weird, but I like it," I put my pants in the open,
empty top left drawer and reach behind me to unclasp my bra.

I pull it off my shoulders and feel his eyes on my bare breasts. He
doesn't speak and I lower my panties while facing him, letting go and
letting them slide down my legs into a pool of pink at my feet. I
stand there for a long moment. My hands are at my sides; my body is
straight, just letting him see me for the first time. I imagine I can
feel the heat of his gaze as he looks down my thin tummy, my narrow
boyish hips and firm thighs.

"Spread your legs for me."

I move my feet apart wordlessly, letting him see my bare sex, freshly
shaved for him this afternoon. My lips are plump already, puffy and I
can only hope it's what he wants. He spies my tattoo, the one I teased
Harmless with on the bus, but the man before me makes no comment on
it. I've already explained it so often, he knows.

"Turn around Lisa."

I turn slowly, keeping my head straight, resisting the urge to look
over my shoulders at him. I let him see every part of me, pressing my
palms flat against my hips until I'm facing him once again.

"Come here now, into the bathtub."

I walk over to him and he watches me as I climb into the large
functional tub. It's warm, almost too hot and the steam drifting
lazily from the water carries with it the soft scent of lilacs. It's
almost intoxicating, spoiling me. He sits on a small stool and directs
me, watching my hands through the clear distorting water as I wash
myself for him. I lift my legs one at a time and use a large soft
sponge and a bottle of Camay Body Wash on my feet, my calves, and
thighs. I work it between my legs, spreading them and resting my heels
on the cool porcelain edges. I close my eyes as I wash my vagina,
spreading my labia and stroking myself gently with my fingers. I do
everything I would normally do and somehow this excites me, showing
him my private bath rituals. The way I soap my breasts, caressing them
and pulling my nipple rings gently. How I like to move onto my side,
hooking my leg over so I can reach behind, pressing a stiff soapy
finger into my anus, twisting it and sliding it in and out to the
knuckle.

I have almost forgotten where I was, who I was with, and it startles
me when I hear him moving. I open my eyes to see him holding a large
towel for me and I stand reluctantly, feeling a little sad to leave
the pleasures of that simple bath. The air is cool on my flushed wet
skin but he dries me gently, the cotton terry cloth feeling both rough
and soft at the same time, warming me nicely. I spread my legs for
him, turn for him, and finally I reach up to free my hair once more,
setting the barrette on the edge of the tub. He releases the drain and
leads me back to the bed, but I don't sit. I stand there as he sits in
front of me, his hands on my hips, and his face level with my breasts.

"I have something for you," he leans back, reaching beneath one of the
pillows and like magic he makes a small silver wrapped box appear from
nowhere. He hands it to me. "Open it Lisa."

I open it carefully, peeling one end and pushing the box inside free.
It's white, plain cardboard, and I lift the top slowly, moving it
underneath and settling the bottom back into it. Inside there's a
simple black leather collar, a dog collar with a silver tag. I lift it
out, looking at it.

"Lisa," I read it aloud, unsure what to think. "I don't...I mean, this
is too fast. I..."

"Just for tonight. I don't mean anything except tonight, that's all. I
promise," he looks at me almost shyly.

Part of me is a little shocked at the gesture, part of me pleased by
the compliment. He can't possible think I'd let someone collar me
after one date, or even a dozen, can he? The trust involved, the
commitment...I want to put it back, give it back. It's too much. But I
don't.

"Just for tonight." It's a statement of fact, leaving no room for
argument. "While I wear this, I'm yours," I say. "But I can take it
off anytime."

"Anytime," he echoes. "I just want you to try it, to see you with it
on. That's all."

"I'll put it on," I tell him, because to allow him that would be too
much for the moment. It's jewelry, that's what I'm saying, only that
and nothing more.

I hand him the box and lift the collar to my neck. It's thin, but not
too much, and a little stiff with newness. But I like it. I put it on
by touch, sliding the end through the little buckle until it fits
comfortably. I make sure the tag is facing the right way, in the
little hollow heart of my throat, and I lower my hands to his, feeling
him now on my hips.

"It's perfect," he says. "Look."

And I do, I move over to the dresser and look in the mirror. It
matches my black hair, the silver gleaming brightly. It is perfect, it
looks beautiful and I think it somehow makes me look beautiful too.
For some reason it makes me want to cry and I shut my eyes tightly,
not wanting to. It's a moment of confusion and I'm so unsure of
myself, falling into a chasm it seems. All these things have conspired
to lull me into...What? Something. Is this love? This moment I can
barely articulate? It consumes me as I stand there transformed.

He doesn't say anything; he doesn't have to. The moment is enough and
I open my eyes to see him staring into mine through the mirror. I turn
around and drop gracefully to my knees; it's a perfect movement I've
made a hundred times before without realizing I was only practicing
for this moment. I place my hands on the floor, bowing my head so my
hair falls over my face like a dark veil. I crawl over to him slowly
and lower my lips to the tops of his leather boots, kissing each one
deliberately.

I'm waiting for his direction; the game has started finally, our
little scene. I kneel in silence, trying to keep my mind from
wandering, wondering where this will lead us. He moves away, I don't
look up and a moment later I hear the sound of music, softly filling
the room with a melodic background. It sounds vaguely familiar, from a
movie perhaps but my thoughts are interrupted by his voice.

"Go to the dresser cabinet, you'll find another gift hanging to the
right. Put it on."

I do as he tells me, only standing once I reach the armoire. I open
the large hinged door on the right side and see a number of items
hanging there. A leather corset catches my eye immediately, it's bone
white color a sharp contrast to the black PVC bodysuit next to it.
There are other things besides those. I run my fingers across a rich
lavender kimono decorated with red cranes, a camisole and tap pants
set of emerald silk, and half a dozen other things displayed on padded
hangers and begging to be worn.

This must be a test I think, or perhaps he wants to please me, nothing
more. Do I pick which one I want? Or the one I think he'll enjoy
seeing me in? It's a mild panic. My whole being wants to make him love
me, to appreciate me. And then my head clears and I know he wants to
see me in all of them. He'd not tease me this way; we don't know each
other well enough for that game, not yet. It's only a clever and
wonderfully sensitive ploy to learn more about me. Or perhaps to see
if he's judged me correctly already. All these thoughts take but a
minute, less even and I pull the corset out, holding it by the hanger
so he can see it.

He rewards me with such a generous smile that I lose all doubts.

"Put it on for me, Lisa."

It's laced already, but very loosely, and I slip into it easily with a
slight wiggle. It molds to my body with hard, lightly padded cups
beneath my breasts and a soft white lace frill around the bottom. I
hold it in place as he moves behind me and gathers my hair, draping it
over my right shoulder. His fingers are quick and nimble, pulling the
strings tight, forcing me to suck in my tummy a little and hold my
breath. It's a small discomfort and truthfully I'm enjoying every
second of it. I've never worn anything like this before. I want to see
it on me. I want to know what he's looking at. I wait until he's
finished, until after he smoothes my hair down my back, when his hands
are on my shoulders, turning me to the mirror. We look together.

My waist is narrowed to less than its normal 20 inches, perhaps only
18 now. My hips suddenly look fuller, more attractive. My breasts are
pushed up and out, not a little girl's 32A, but something resembling a
more womanly B-cup I think. I'm being spoiled; a new sensation or
perhaps I'm only giving in to something I've always resisted in the
past. This is a new form of Dominance, one that never occurred to me,
and perhaps even at this minute I don't fully appreciate the subtlety
of it, the devious nature of vanity being fed.

I lean back against his towering form. He seems to grow even larger as
I watch us in the mirror. His hands are moving around me, pressing to
the shiny white leather on my tummy, down inside my legs, turning
sideways so his palms press against the insides of my thighs. He wants
me, I can feel it radiating through him. There is a hardness growing,
pressing against the small of my back. But the night is early and he
has plans, release can wait.

"Go to the cabinet and get my paddle now. The bottom drawer."

I move to the Armoire, this magical wooden treasure chest, and kneel
to open the bottom of three wide thin drawers at its base. Inside are
several paddles, of differing lengths and widths. I select a
beautifully simple blonde paddle, perhaps two feet long including the
handle and six inches wide. It's light, very thin and I wonder if it
won't break. I hold it out for him with my hands upturned, my head
bowed.

"Very good Lisa."

He takes it and leads me to the foot of the bed, facing it. He tells
me to bend over, to take the iron framework in my hands and hold onto
it. I do this, feeling the cold antique steel in my fists while he
spreads my legs wider with the paddle, pushing against the insides of
my knees with it. I have my eyes closed against the racing of my
heart. I want this so badly. I've needed it all my life and now,
tonight, everything is so perfect. My body tingles with anticipation,
this intolerable waiting. I can't see or feel him behind me, but I
sense his presence, his eyes drinking me in as I stand there exposed
for him. I wonder what he is waiting for. A minute passes without a
sound. Nothing is the way I'd imagined it before tonight.

With the first touch of the paddle on my flesh I gasp in surprise, not
pain. I lift myself on tiptoes; the sting is accentuated with a small
sound, a welcome sensation to remind me of past things. It warms me,
spreading through my ass and up my back, down my thighs. He spanks me
slowly, with measured strokes across both cheeks. I can feel the heat
rising and I grip the bed frame tighter. A dozen strokes, all with the
same intensity, but I'm becoming more sensitive to them. A moan rises
in my throat and I let it out softly, like the high-pitched purr of a
kitten. It's a sign that he's doing it right. No rush, no reason to
hurry; we have all the time in the world.

"Tell me Lisa, do you like this?" he doesn't pause and I have to fight
through the sensations to understand him and find my voice.

"Yessss..." I hiss softly. "I like it."

The sound of flat hard wood striking the softness, the firm round
globes of my ass, fills the room. The music is lost to it, a sweet
slapping sound as the paddle strikes and lingers a moment before being
lifted silently away. He's breathing harder, not quite out of breath,
just a teasing exhalation of effort as he continues to spank me. It
falls into the rhythm of his strokes and my own breathing matches his.
Puffing the air from my lungs as the paddle's swift touch lifts me
slightly.

He stops finally, the strokes have been countless, perhaps 50? Maybe
less, maybe more, but they were perfect as foreplay and they've warmed
me completely inside and out. I feel as if a fire were lit behind me,
the rosy glow spreading deep into my muscles. My calves feel cramped,
tight from the constant movement of my feet. My nipples itch, as
though the heat has wound its way through me to my breasts and licked
me there, suckled at the swollen nubs.

He holds the paddle to my ass, rubbing me with a slow circular motion
before turning it slightly. The thin flat edge slides between my legs,
splitting my engorged labia, teasing me and bringing forth a low
guttural sigh. I can't help but move a fraction lower, trying to press
my hardened clit against the wood, but he denies me, pulling it away.

"You're warm now?" he asks me in a light tone, a gentle voice.

I don't answer but instead moan and feel my knees giving way as he
presses his bare hand to my sex. He pushes a finger inside me and
finds I'm already wet. He rubs the inside of my vagina for a few
seconds before withdrawing. It's unbelievable how badly I want to keep
him there. But instead I let him lead me away from the bed, his hand
on my shoulder, moving me to the pommel horse I'd admired earlier.

I'm bending over it from side to side, on my toes and flat on my
palms. My warmed and tender ass pushed into the air as he reaches down
to fix a nylon cord around my wrists and ankles, pulling them together
so I can only balance my stomach on the pommel. The belt with the
silver ring is pressing into my tummy uncomfortably and I try to
shift, but it does no good. He doesn't seem to notice, or if he does
it's unimportant to him. His fingers go in my hair and he lifts my
head so I can see the leather crop he's holding. It's long and thin
with a supple loop of leather at the end. I kiss it for him and he
lets me go, the blood rushing to my head as I wait for the first blow.

It isn't long in coming. He snaps the crop across my already sensitive
flesh and immediately my body jerks against the flash of pain. He
strikes my ass deliberately once again, slowly so that I can feel each
touch as a singular event. My left cheek, then my right, alternating
and letting me anticipate each in succession. I'm filled with dread
and craving, the conflict of pain and pleasure beyond the mere
physical. My mind and my heart are wrapped in this simple expression
of submission. I can't control the breathless yelps slipping from my
lips. He's bringing my skin to a boil, welts rising white and then
dark and angry against the red glow of my flesh. I have my eyes closed
and I feel a little wetness starting, running across my forehead and
into my hair. I know what he sees; I can picture how my body looks to
him and how beautiful this moment is for both of us.

How long he continues I don't know. At the time it seems an eternity,
but when he stops I feel it has been too short. Not enough I want to
say but don't. It's not my place to command, only to beg and I find
myself doing that. I call him Master and ask him if he's pleased and
he tells me he is. I feel his hands on me; they're cool to my burning
flesh, caressing the long thin lines of pain rising from my skin. He
reaches between my legs, my thighs are pressed together by my bonds,
and he digs softly, spreading my flesh until he can clearly see my
sex. He pinches my lips and makes me cry out as he pulls them open,
exposing the hot interior to his eye.

"What is the largest cock you've had Lisa?" his question surprises me
and I think for a moment.

"I'm not sure Master. I think eight inches, but not so thick."

"And toys Lisa? What's the largest thing you've taken in your pussy?"

He's fingering me again, slowly, teasing me and I answer breathlessly.
"Nine inches Master, a dildo...Ahhh..." It feels so nice. "...Yes,
nine inches."

"I want to stretch you, Lisa. Something a little more than you're used
to I think."

He walks away leaving me feeling empty again and when he returns he's
untying me, letting me stand up and stretch. I watch while he loosens
the pommel's belt and positions a large phallus through the ring. Its
black and stiff and easily 12" long, but not too thick except for a
ridge about three inches from the base, like a donut around the shaft,
it looks huge and cruel. He tightens the belt once more and the cock
juts upright and slightly forward, pointing lewdly and I smile as he
squeezes a large amount of lubricant over the head and down the length
of it.

"Rub it for me, Lisa. Get it ready for you."

I wrap my hands around that rubber cock, squeezing and massaging it
with slippery oil dripping from my fingers. While I do this he moves
his hands to my sore ass, squeezing me hard and making me cry out. I
feel weak in my legs but he holds me tightly, the welts from my
whipping scream with fresh pain. After a few minutes he tells me
that's enough and he helps me get into position.

The huge dildo slides between my legs, beneath my sex as I watch him
lock my ankles in the restraints. My legs are spread around the pommel
horse and bent at the knees with my feet slightly above them. I have
my palms pressed to the front of the pommel, next to the other set of
leather cuffs and I have to lean forward so he can position the head
of the fake cock at the entrance to my womb. His hand on my tummy
pushes me back and I feel it splitting me not uncomfortably. The first
few inches find easy purchase within my sex and then we stop so he can
lock my wrists into place. It only requires a small movement of my
arms and I'm suddenly trapped. My position is uncomfortable, holding
myself up, impaled slightly on the dildo. My natural reaction would be
to relax, to let my weight settle on the pommel horse, but to do so
would push the entire length of that cock inside me.

I hold myself upright, unsure if he wants me to stay like this as long
as possible, or to take this new toy slowly inside me. My body is
getting tense and my legs begin to ache first. My muscles must be
rigid to keep me up for there is nothing to rest my knees on, and I
feel myself slipping slowly down, giving into my desire to relax. And
in truth, I can't deny my desire to be filled with this hardness
inside me.

The phallus slides deeper and I moan softly, letting it come. My body
opens for it, my wetness slipping out around the oily shaft and I
forget about everything else. The heat of my ass has moved to my womb,
to the delicate folds of my sex, my aching clit, and I begin to push
myself down, letting it go deeper. The hard tip spears into me and I
feel the beginnings of that thick bulging knot near the base. It
touches my lips and pushes them aside, working at the wet tightness
beneath.

I'm gasping as it begins to stretch me, my weight forcing it deeper,
opening me, and the mild discomfort only arouses me further. It seems
stuck and I roll my hips, wriggle my ass slightly and suck in a sharp
breath when the donut seems to pop inside my pussy. I feel suddenly
stuffed and more as I continue down the shaft, the bulge pushing deep
into my burning sex until I find I'm sitting flat on the pommel horse.
The head of that cock is a foot inside me, and it reaches for my
cervix when I move the wrong way, knocking the air out of me with a
dazzling confusion of pain and pleasure to my senses.

I have to hold myself still, catching my breath and exploring this new
sensation slowly, concentrating on the way it seems to writhe inside
me. As if it were alive somehow. My muscles spasm around it, my sex
gripping it, begging for friction, urging me to move against it, but I
don't. The tip is deep inside me, teasing me, threatening me with its
very presence. I almost wish my hands were free so I could press them
to my belly and imagine I feel this hardness through my flesh.

He is with me again. My body has rolled through a tiny orgasm while he
watched, just a tease of the pleasure I'm sometimes capable of
experiencing. My body flashes hot and cold, shuddering around the
phallus buried deep inside me and I feel his hands touching me. He's
undressed while he watched me; his penis is hard and long, though much
smaller then the rubber cock I'm riding. A normal man, nothing more,
but the sight thrills me. How long since just seeing a naked man has
filled me with desire?

He's rolling a condom down the length of his shaft and moving behind
me. He's large enough and I'm low enough he can position himself
easily. I feel the wetness of cool lubricant as he pours it onto my
spread ass. He massages it inside me gently, his finger pushing past
my tight rosebud anus and out again. It makes me moan with pleasure
and my body squeezes the thickness buried inside my pussy. He
positions himself and begins pushing his hardness into my exposed
rectum, splitting me with the pleasant burning of my muscles being
pushed apart. He forces himself inside until the ridge of his cockhead
slips past the ring and I gasp loudly as it is a brutal, loving
contradiction.

I can feel it against the dildo in my pussy, the two cocks now rubbing
me deliciously. A new sensation. A wonderful treat that my sex has
been begging for. He puts his hands on my shoulders, pulling me back,
crushing my body to the hard leather pommel as he begins to thrust
himself deeper, rocking my body within the cuffs that bind me.

The dildo in my sex works back and forth, fucking inside me as we move
around it. The thing is stretching and caressing me, making me cry
out. All discomfort is gone, only pleasure remains. My ass is tight
around his cock; the thin walls separating him from the dildo are
being tormented wonderfully. My hard little clit is grinding against
the smooth unevenness of the ring and belt beneath me. I'm going to
cum again. A small one. Another teaser rolling through me as he pushes
himself completely inside my body.

I'm impaled on two hard cocks, stuffed with them, as they become a
part of me. He's thrusting his prick into my bowels over and over,
sodomizing me and I love him for it. He's brought that rubber phallus
to life and it too fucks me quickly, riding the well-stretched channel
towards my womb. It bumps my cervix again and I'm crashing through the
walls of sanity. My body floods with my orgasm finally and I'm giving
myself over to it completely. He's pounding into me; his cock feels
huge, stretching my ass repeatedly as it moves back and forth, rubbing
against the hard penis in my sex. His body is pressed against my ass
and I feel the burning there behind everything else, the dull sweet
pain lingering lovingly.

I can't move myself any longer; I can only lay trapped beneath him as
his motion works my body around the dildo inside me. He's close, he's
going to cum and he begins slapping me, smacking his palm against my
hip and thigh. His other hand finds my hair and he pulls it, lifting
my head and I twist my neck to look at him. He wants to see me; he
wants to look into my delirious eyes while he fucks me, while he
violates my ass. My tongue lolls out. I'm breathless and my muscles
ache with the stretching effort of twisting this way for him. But I
want him to see me, to know the pleasure he's giving me. I want him to
cum inside me. I regret knowing he's using a condom; I want to feel
his hot wet seed filling me. Someday, I think. Someday. And that
thought fills me, imagining him not in my ass but in my pussy. In my
womb where that large dildo now works inside me. He's going to cum
inside me someday I promise myself and then I feel him pressing his
penis as deeply as possible. I'm stuffed between his cock and the
dildo and I know he's cumming, his hardness jerking inside me.

When he withdraws from my body I miss him immediately. The dildo in my
sex seems suddenly smaller, less fulfilling. I lay there, unmoving as
he dismounts me, moving around and bringing his semi-hard penis to my
face. He removes the condom, squeezing the tip and forcing his sperm
out, covering his cock with it as he unrolls it. He lifts my face by
my hair and I open for him, letting him push himself into my mouth. I
taste his seed, swallowing it and suckling him softly, cleaning him
and feeling him beginning to swell again. He works his hips, mouth-
fucking me slowly and pressing the head of his cock against the back
of my throat so that I gag slightly before withdrawing. I think he
wants to cum again, he wants me to bring him off with my mouth so I
try harder, working my tongue underneath and over, around the head.
But he pulls back, smiling at me, leaning down to kiss me lightly on
the lips.

He reaches down to undo the restraints on my wrists, and then on my
legs. I keep the large cock inside me as I stretch carefully, rubbing
myself as I remain impaled on the pommel's erection. My pussy burns
around the hardness inside it and I miss that sensation as he helps me
slowly lift myself and let it slip out of me. I stand up and spread my
legs, obeying his every word as he directs me. I look down at my
shaved sex; my lips are heavy and distended, hanging down slightly. My
pussy is open, gaping slightly. There is wetness leaking freely, down
my thighs. He has gone to throw his condom away, to wash himself and
get chilled bottled water from the small refrigerator next to the bed.
He drinks from it and hands it to me. I feel the cool wetness
refreshing me. I smile at him gratefully and hand it back.

He rubs my behind with his hand lightly. "How's your ass feeling?"

I giggle a little and look at him. "Sore, really sore."

I shiver when he presses his palm flat against my welts, moving it in
a circular motion, adding more pressure slowly and working a finger
into my loosened, slippery ass.

"God, you've got a great ass, Lisa."

I'm reaching down to feel his hard cock, stroking it slowly. "What do
you want to do now, Master?"

I rub my thumb across the tip, feeling his precum leaking across my
fingers. The fire in my belly is burning still, unquenched. Have I
ever been this horny before? I can't remember. And for the first time
I'm not wishing I were alone with my pain, regretting the
circumstances that require I have a partner in sin. I'm enjoying his
company and it's wonderfully confusing.

"I want to clamp you, stretch those pretty little lips some more." He
withdraws his finger from my anus and pinches my labia, tugging them
gently until I have to bend my knees. He brings his other hand to my
smallish breast, squeezing it hard and making me exhale sharply. "And
then I want to play with these a little."

A wicked smile touches his lips and I'm smiling too, pushing myself
against his rough hand.

He finds some handcuffs in his antique treasure chest and I hold my
hands out in front of me while he locks them into place. He leads me
to his mechanical wonder, the so-called chain fall, and I lift my arms
so the chain slips over the hook. I watch him as he pulls the looping
chain, making a loud click-clacking sound as the hook rises slowly,
pulling my arms up with it. He could easily lift me a foot off the
floor if he wanted and I feel both relief and disappointment when he
stops.

I'm not quite on my tiptoes, and not quite able to stand flatfooted,
but someplace in between. I can feel the discomfort already beginning
in my shoulders, thighs and calves from this awkward position. The
steel restraints are biting into my wrists, pressing against the bone,
but I barely notice that for now. I'm watching him use a metal leg
spreader, loosening it and sliding it apart about four feet. That
seems entirely too wide for me. He straps one of my ankles into it and
I have to slide my feet carefully apart, as far as I can so that the
other foot will go in the opposite strap. This brings my full weight
onto my wrists; I'm hanging free, suspended as he locks my other ankle
into place.

My shoulders feel like they're being stretched out and I tilt my head
back, moaning up at the source. He pauses a moment considering me,
inspecting my position and handcuffs are not toys as we both know. He
has no desire to break my wrists. He lowers me slowly the three or
four inches I need to reach the floor with my feet and ensures I'm
balanced as well as I can be. My pelvis is straining, the insides of
my thighs feel like rubber bands the way I am spread. But I don't
complain. This isn't that bad of a stretch, I remind myself silently.
I've done a lot worse and none of this comes close to my limits as
yet, but then again...That isn't what we're about tonight, either.

There's a freedom there that I can't translate into words, but
nonetheless, I am grateful and I think he knows it.

The clamps he uses are wide, with sharp tiny teeth, like alligator
clips. They bite into my nether lips painfully; the springs holding
them closed being short and strong. I cry out when he attaches the
first one, feeding the sensitive, blood engorged flesh of my labia to
it. I bounce slightly on my toes, moaning. It's a wonderful torment. I
see it behind my closed eyes like the color blue, a thousand small
blue flames dancing against a dull reddish background. He pulls my
other lip down and out. I know I'm wet, slippery with lube and my own
juices, but he finds a grip and clamps me quickly, pressing it closed
to ensure it bites deeply into my soft flesh.

The clamps have small chains attached to them, perhaps a foot long,
ending in small dull hooks. He has a little tray with weights, of
different sizes, shapes, and materials. He selects two bright silver
balls, like steel marbles with small metal eyeholes. He tells me they
are 30grams each, just over an ounce and I smile at him. I've done
this before, and about four times that is usually nice for me. But I
don't say anything; he wants to experiment, to learn from my secrets.

He slips two of them on, hooking them through one chain and then the
other, letting the weights dangle freely between my thighs. They
bounce off each other, clinking softly and I feel my lips being pulled
slightly, but not uncomfortably. He pushes them with his finger so
they swing in a gentle arc and the sensation is nice, pulling one way
and then the other. He tries different things, changing weights while
he watches my face, listens to my breathing, notes the florid hue of
my skin. He's learning about me.

Finally he's slipped two large pyramid shaped weights onto my chains.
They're nearly eight ounces each. A pound hanging from my burning
pussy lips. It has me moaning, shivering as perspiration runs down my
face. This is new for me, another line crossed. They move slightly
with each breath I take, and the feeling is incredible. My labia are
hanging long, stretched like fleshy butterfly wings and pulling my
slick pussy open. I imagine I'm so wet that I must be dripping, my
wetness running down the chains, adding fractions of pressure to the
clamps tearing into me. It isn't just the skin that's pulled, but more
so the muscles inside my sex that are caught. I'm basking in the
moment and he's satisfied with this effect, and so am I.

He talks to me softly, describing what he sees for me. But his words
are lost, only the caring rhythm, the gentleness is coherent. He
caresses me with his voice and with his hands; shifting me slightly on
my barely balanced toes. He roams slowly across the smooth shiny
leather I'm wearing, up to my heaving breasts and gives me tender
squeezes. It's a delicious torture as it sets my weights into slow
motion, drifting lazily between my widespread legs.

He's kneading my small firm breasts, digging his fingers into them
while he stares into my eyes. I'm panting, letting my tongue hang out
of my mouth. The collar around my neck feels tighter and it itches
slightly. He wants to use candles on me, not the flame, only the wax.
I murmur my desire for this as well and it rouses me somewhat so that
after a moment I'm begging for it softly. The feelings running through
my body are pushing me, lifting me to another place. Pain is being
replaced, slowly but surely by the pleasure these sensations bring me.
I feel good, a sense of well being flooding me. Like a runner's high,
endorphins are flooding through my system with intoxicating effect.

He uses a large red candle, simple and deceptive. The flame glitters
through my eyelashes as I stare at it. He rubs the cool wax of the
shaft against my hard nipples, the light dancing a few inches away
from my body. When he tilts it and the first drops of hot wax, like
liquid fire, fall onto my skin it brings a sharp moan. My body spasms
and a tiny orgasm stirs in my womb. The pull on my labia seems to grow
as the cruel weights vibrate in time with my body's movements.

The red heat drips quickly and he paints my breasts with it, covering
my quivering flesh with a rapidly cooling shell of wax. Each stain a
flash of fire, a glimpse of brilliant possibility before the initial
sharpness gives way to a blunt throbbing heat. I feel more bruised
than burned; the blossoms behind my closed eyes are sweet beautiful
things to be embraced. The fire in my tummy, the lingering warmth of
my punished ass, the fresh delight of my waxen breasts; all of these
things build me into a pillar of flame, anchored to the heavy pyramids
swaying gracefully beneath me. It brings me to orgasm again. Better
this time and completing me finally. I'm thanking him over and over,
my voice a breathless whisper I doubt he can even understand. But he
doesn't need to, I'm in that place and I understand. This is who I am.

In the middle of my cum he brings me into the flame, he burns me with
it. Holding the tip of the candle beneath my nipples, his fingers in
my hair, tilting my head down so I can see it. So I can watch him
burning my nipples slowly, the left one first. The wax already
covering it melts away, revealing my ring and dark hardness it
pierces. Red wax runs hotly down my curved flesh and onto the leather
corset, like a bloodstain on snow. I'm holding my breath, impossibly
against the spikes of pain and pleasure shooting through my body. I
imagine I can feel my body melting, my skin burning, and my nipples on
fire as he holds the flame to them. But they're not; he holds it only
long enough to bring me over that final edge, to give me a little push
into the freefall of ecstasy.

It's perfect and I'm unhurt.

He moves the candle carefully, not letting it linger too long, just
enough to turn the dried wax on my breasts into small short-lived
rivulets. He's cleaning me, finishing his painting as the redness
falls softly away. Incomplete of course, but it's beautiful
nonetheless. He extinguishes the flame finally, snuffing it quickly
against my right breasts. A tiny last bit of pain to bring a final
gasp from my dry mouth. I want him inside me now and I know he wants
it as well. His cock is straining from his flushed body and I'm
ready.

He tells me he wants me bare, unsheathed. No condom this time? It's a
question and I can only nod, all reason has left me. I have to trust
him. I have to hope this spur of the moment indulgence won't cost me
anything beyond the worry I know it will bring me later. I'm not on
the pill anymore. Perhaps he's taking advantage of me, knowing I'm
lost in subspace for the moment and willing to follow him anywhere.
I'll hate him later, I promise myself. If I have to.

He takes me from the front, positioning his penis between my
stretched, clamped lips and thrusting inside me with a grunt. It's a
quick, deep stroke that fills me and lifts me off my feet momentarily.
His hands are on my ass, holding me, gripping the firm spread globes
tightly as he fucks me slowly. I lean my head forward, resting my
forehead on his shoulder, kissing him softly. I'm breathing him while
he uses me. His hardness slides in and out of me easily, past the
clamps, the long chains pulled tight by the weights as they swing back
and forth, banging into each other and the tension licks at my sex.

I'm going to cum for him; I'm going to orgasm all over his cock as he
struggles to bury his seed in my womb. The thought is delicious and
daring. I want it suddenly, for no other reason than it's been denied
me for so long. His fingers claw at my body, ripping painfully across
the torturous memories embedded in my flesh. The chains rattle, the
steel bites into my wrists, his cock swells and burns inside me. I
feel light as air, crushed by this unbearable freedom. I lose myself
as I feel his cock pulsing, the flood of his semen into my womb. It
blankets me, inside and out and I cry aloud, biting his shoulder. He's
holding himself, pressing his cockhead as far inside me as he can.
It's the release we've been searching for. Everything before this
moment was a dream.

Afterward, he washes me slowly. I'm drifting away in the bathtub,
feeling his hands on me. He's gentle and careful and his every touch
is welcome. This is how I come down. Other times, with other men, I'd
do this alone. I'd explore new wounds and fresh scars. Angry with
myself, wondering why and how and when. All the questions I've never
been able answer. But anger washes away, like everything else, and I'd
find myself alone.

This time, for the first time, it's different. He's still with me, he
still cares about me, perhaps even loves me. Not the things we've said
or done, but me. Am I worth so much? Everything is different, how can
I explain this I wonder. How do I explain it to myself? I realize now
that without anger to cleanse, the only thing left to wash away is the
old me. She slips away, finally and forever while I finger the collar
around my neck and try to remember negotiating over pie.

end

-- 
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