0 comments/ 17074 views/ 0 favorites Communication Skills Ch. 02 By: subtle Part II: Fitting Treatment It always amazed me how quiet Soho could be midmorning on a weekday. In an hour or two, there might be small throngs of hip 'insiders' congregating outside Balthazar or Spring Street Naturel, vying for a chance to indulge in an overpriced lunch. But by around 10:30a, the locals were all midtown, working-or happily ensconced in their lofts, creating art. And the tourists were either standing at TKTS, hoping to grab half-price matinee tickets to Broadway shows, this being Wednesday, or were window-shopping along Fifth Avenue. There were only one or two lost souls wandering past the store where the cab had stopped, and they hurried along in true New Yorker-style, pretending not to notice how I was being unceremoniously pulled by my hair from the cab onto the sidewalk. "Wait, damnit," I exclaimed in surprise as he pulled me past the shop entrance, to an unmarked black lacquered door to the right of it. "Where are you taking me?" I instantly sensed, as soon as the words had left my lips, that he did not view 'damnit', especially in that tone of voice, as acceptable sub lingo. Instead of pulling me closer toward the door, he stopped and pushed me against the brick wall that lay to its left. His hand stayed in my hair, slowly rewrapping his hand in my short brown locks to better his grip. He raised it higher and higher, making me almost stand on tiptoe to avoid the pain of the yank. He pressed his body against mine, pinning me so hard that the edges of the bricks scraped against the back of my bare calves. His face went past mine, so that his lips were at my ear. He waited a moment, letting me access the gravity of my situation, before he spoke. "This is where it ends." "Where what ends?" I asked, in part fearful that with one word, I had thrown away my entire future with this man, and in part indignant at the presumption that he had the right to enforce rules he hadn't yet decreed. "The freedom you mistakenly seem to feel you possess, my dear. The freedom to dictate how you are treated. Where you are taken. And how you are taken. You never owned it, it was always on loan. And its being recalled here and now. What happens inside here, what I buy, what I do…will reflect your subjugation, but won't enforce it. Even my strength," he said, pulling my hair harder for emphasis and then pressing my head hard against the brick, "even that won't enforce it. But by the end of our shopping trip, you will tell me, my darling, what it is that will bind you to me. Understood?" Each of his words had both cut me and caressed me deeply, and as he slowly released his grasp on my hair, I nodded weakly and eeked out a perfunctory "Yes, Sir," desperately hoping my knees wouldn't fail me, leaving me as diluted as the juice that was dripping down my inner thighs. I again took comfort in the lack of crowds on the street. Though his hand was no longer in my hair, his lips stayed close, his breath hot and arousing, his demeanor suddenly more paternal. "Tell me again while you're here, Dana," he whispered, the back of his palm tenderly caressing my cheek. "To please you, Sir." I answered, hoping against hope he would sense my sincerity and my nipples would be spared this time. Thankfully, they were. "If that's true, love, then you'll remember it through the rest of the afternoon. You'll realize that everything that follows is designed for my pleasure and to test your ability to provide me with that pleasure. Nothing will happen that I don't sanction or haven't helped orchestrate. Do you understand that?" "Yes, Sir…" Then remember one last thing, Dana," he whispered, "Know that you're here to test your limits. To accept what I've decided is best for you. To earn my time and my touch. I'll never put you in danger. But I won't recognize 'No'. I won't respond to 'Stop'. I understand only your safeword. And when I hear it, it really does end. All of it. And you go home. So please love, use it sparingly. I'd like to be able to keep your pretty body around to use." He kissed me once on the lips, as gentle a kiss as I'd ever felt. Then he stepped away, pulling my arm sharply as I stumbled three steps behind him, and then knocked three times at the black lacquered door. I could hear the clicking of stiletto heels from the other side, a quick sliding of the keyhole metal and then the creak of the door as it opened slightly. "Mr. Gaines. Welcome! Please, Sir, come inside." I strained my head to see the face that belonged to this throaty, feminine voice, but his back blocked my view. The dialect sounded gutteral, German perhaps? He pulled me from behind him, past the threshold and then practically flung me forward, so that I stumbled into the middle of the room, leaving him behind along with my balance. I recomposed myself as I oriented myself with the new space. It was dimly lit, funky yet opulent--black velvet-covered walls, maroon curtains and mirrors all around, one crystal chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling, an almost musky scent in the air. A round platform, about five inches high and three feet in diameter, sat in the middle of the floor; chains ending in shackles hung from the ceiling above it. The stereo played at medium pitch and I made out the words to be from Elton John's Angeline. "And keep me well fed, give me warm bread Lay my body on a feather bed…" Aside from the black-leather-catsuit-and-stiletto-clad woman who had initially greeted 'Mr. Gaines' (it sounded so odd since he'd always been Grahame to me), there were three young, busty, exotic looking women, dressed-well, make that barely dressed-in black silk scarves that left little to the imagination, who also greeted my 'date' in familiar tones. They wore highly ornamented silver collars around their necks and looked like slave girls. I felt a sharp pain of jealousy as they led him, gently running their hands over the shirt that covered his back and arms, to an overstuffed lounge chair placed in the far corner of the room. By its side was a small table with a champagne glass and some chocolate truffles. Behind it was an ice bucket, overflowing with ice and a chilled bottle of what I assumed was champagne. I thought to myself that if the store were a disco or an 'in' club, this would be the VIP suite. "Well I talk tough, I act rough Lay still honey I can't get enough…" The girls (Hadn't I seen them in Vogue?) immediately went to work, the Asian and the Caucasian taking off Grahame's shoes and beginning to massage his feet, while the third, who looked like a rare Nigerian beauty, pulled the cork from the champagne and slowly poured him a glass. After handing it to him, she began to massage his shoulders and neck. I started to shoot him a look as if to say, "Having fun?" but thought better of it. Ms. Catsuit took me by the arm, walked me over until I was positioned in front of Grahame, and then pushed down my shoulders as if urging me to kneel. I stared him straight in the eye, starting to wonder exactly what I'd gotten myself into, as the song droned on… "And keep your nose clean, let me be On your knees when you speak to me And trust me, Angeline…" "I'd do it if I were you," Ms. Catsuit hissed in a stern tone, as she snapped her fingers. A fourth girl came out from behind a maroon curtain and handed her a crop and then retreated back into the shadows. She pressed down more insistently. "Last chance. You're lucky to have been brought here. Very few girls are. Apparently fewer still deserve to be. Why don't you treat your Master with the proper respect?" I decided to play along. What the hell…if this is what he wanted, I could be a sport. I kneeled, arms forward, forehead to my outstretched elbows. A throwback to my days at stretch class. I thought I might be laying it on a bit thick, but no one seemed to mind. "Eyes closed," dictated Ms. Catsuit, and I complied. Then I felt her tie a blindfold tightly around my eyes. I resisted the urge to protest, again deciding to give him his fun. Hey, I could stretch my limits with the best of them. "Sir, how would you like us to adorn your slave?" I heard her ask Grahame. "She's untamed," he answered in a somewhat condescending tone. "Leather. Something tight. Very tight. And attachable. Today she learns her place." "Yes, Sir. I think we have just the thing…let me take her back and have her dressed. Then I'll bring her out for your approval." "Stay still, stay quiet,” she commaned, and I felt a tightness around my neck as she stooped down and affixed something stiff around my neck--I presumed it to be a collar. "Hey Lady, what the hell do you think you're…" I started, pulling at the collar and shaking my head, only to be cut off by Grahame who barked out, "Three!" Suddenly, I heard two sets of footsteps come from behind and felt myself yanked upright by my wrists. The assault pulled me in opposite directions as I wobbled uneasily. Then I felt the first stroke and struggled in desperation, pulling against the arms that held me in place. "Grahame, we never agreed to this," I shouted angrily to the room, guessing in my blindness as to where he was actually seated. "We never talked about outsiders. I don't want this…stop it now!" "I believe your safeword is "Safeword," is it not?" asked Ms. Catsuit icily, her words hitting me harder than the crop had. A moment of silence as I absorbed her words, and remembered Grahame's warning. I bowed my head as I slowly nodded yes. Tears welled up behind the blindfold but I refused to sob. "That's what I thought," she continued. She needn't have bothered; she'd already made her point. I didn't struggle against the second and third stroke. They burned but I bit my lip, thankful that my shirt was still on and the crop wasn't hitting bare skin. I pictured Grahame watching, evaluating my response, perhaps smiling. It soothed me somehow. "Now come," she said. The two sets of hands finally released my wrists as I felt myself tugged forward by a leash that had apparently been attached to the collar. "Come, girl. Let's get changed. Let's see just how pretty we can make you for your Master." Communication Skills Ch. 03 Part III: Dressed and Redressed It's funny how reality differs from fantasy. I had never quite imagined how awkward it would be to be led by a leash while blindfolded. When you're young and playing Helen Keller with your friends, at least you have the power to walk where you choose, at your own pace, and to stop when you feel unsteady. With the leash, I felt completely off-balance…perhaps because I was being led forward by my neck, at a pace one or two steps faster than I would have preferred. I wondered if my not-particularly-compassionate leader would have even noticed, had I stumbled and fallen on my face, or if she would have just dragged me the rest of the way. Mercifully, we reached our destination before I had to find out. The stereo had been turned off, making it easier to hear a curtain pulled open, and after two more steps ahead, the sound of it being pulled closed again. "Hold still," she said, in what I had now determined to be a Dutch accent, and I felt the tug of the leash loosen a bit but then pull me a bit more upright. As I heard her fading footsteps signaling her departure, I imagined she'd attached the handle to a hook from the wall or ceiling to keep me in place. My lack of vision punctuated every sound, every scent, every action. Two new sets of footsteps and the swish of the curtain again being pulled open and closed. The uncomfortable feeling of hands, not my own, unbuttoning my blouse and pulling my skirt from me. I felt more naked than I ever had in the past and I made it clear by my stiff, non-cooperative motions that I did not especially appreciate the treatment. "Why do you resist your Master?" asked one of the dressers in a sweet but curious voice. "Is he not the reason you are here?" "I never agreed to be treated this way." "Is he not your Dominant? Aren't you his submissive?" asked the other. "Are you not with him out of free will?" Before I could answer, the curtain pulled open again. "Here," said Ms. Catsuit, apparently handing a garment to the dressers. "She's not here to chat, girls," she admonished. "She's here to learn her place. Finish her in silence and then bring her to me." "Yes, Mistress," they answered in tandem. Being dressed while blindfolded and being held in place by a mock noose was almost as frightening as the stroll we'd completed moments before. But the girls were mercifully careful as they lifted each foot to help me to step into whatever outfit had been chosen, one steadying me as the other positioned me. I smelled the musky smell of the leather, the stiffness of the garment. They pulled it over my hips and then cinched it tight. I felt like Scarlett O'Hara in the opening scenes of Gone with the Wind, though I doubt Mammy would have chosen an outfit such as this for Scarlett, one that boosted but bared her breasts, as this one did to mine. Vanity and curiosity overtook my discomfort; I yearned to see what I was now wearing. But to my dismay, the girls halted the investigation my free hands had begun. "She won't like that," one whispered. "Stay still. It'll be easier." They fluffed my hair, applied lipstick, and placed cuffs on each ankle before leading me, still blindfolded and as awkward as before, back to their Mistress. She pulled me forward and told me to step up, onto what I imagined was the platform I'd seen earlier. My wrists were pulled skyward, then affixed to the shackles hanging from above. Hands ran up the insides of my legs, up to my thighs, forcing them about a foot or two apart. I heard two clicks and then was unable to move them again. Another click and then heat emanating from above. A spotlight, perhaps? Then no further touching. Silence. I let a minute pass and then couldn't contain myself any longer. I'd never worn a corset before and I wanted to know how if I looked as sexy as I felt. He'd never seen my breasts naked before, and I wanted to know his reaction, to hopefully see some sign of approval in his eyes. "Grahame?" I called out into the abyss, pulling a bit on the restraints to test their give. "Grahame, are you there?" A snap of fingers. Footsteps behind me. "Gag!" was all he said. Footsteps again and then fingers at my mouth. I pulled my face away and kept my lips pursed. Two or three attempts. Each one rebuffed. The sweet voice of one of the dressers again whispered into my ear. "Why do you continue to refuse? It's a simple request, standard procedure. It doesn't even hurt." "You don't understand," I pleaded more to Grahame than to the dresser, moving my head about to dodge a gag I couldn't see. "It terrifies me, being blindfolded and gagged and restrained all at once. I told you that on the phone. I can't be that out of control!" Two snaps. My blindfold was removed. I strained to adjust to the harsh light of the spotlight. I saw him about ten feet ahead of me, still seated in the lounger, slowly sipping champagne. As the blur subsided, I realized he was now undressed, except for his briefs. The girls were still on each side, their massage having moved from his feet up to his calves. The third girl was still behind him, but was now licking his neck and sucking his earlobes. His expression hid both any reaction to my disobedience or to the treatment he was receiving from the Unholy Trinity. But the growing bulge in his pants told me more than I wanted to know. "I want the gag, Dana." "No. I told you why. Please, ask for something else. Anything else." I winced as I watched the girls' hands move from his calves to his thighs, prompted by my refusal. Their long, expert fingers caressed and massaged the skin I yearned to touch myself. The girl behind him moved her attentions from his earlobes to his nipples, slowly circling and caressing each one. I watched the bulge grow even larger. I stared him straight in the eye. "Why are they here? Why aren't I enough?" "They're alternatives, dear. Either you will give me the pleasure I require, or they will. It's really up to you." "Let me down then. I would love to do that for you, you know I would." "You know, they really do quite an extraordinary trick, Marcelle and Kiana here," he said as he set aside the champagne flute and began to stroke their hair. "They kiss each other, with my cock in-between them. And as they move their heads up and down, one massages the front of my cock with her tongue while the other massages the back. Then they switch so that each girl gets to taste each side of me. Sometimes they even flick their tongues…I quite enjoy that, don't I, girls?" I felt myself turning a very unattractive shade of anger-red as the girls looked up, smiling and nodding submissively and then began reaching for his cock through his briefs, as if on cue. "Okay!" I shouted. "Okay, what?" "Okay, the gag, the gag. I'll do it. Just please, don't…" He cocked his head slightly, studying me, considering. A moment passed. Three snaps of his finger and the girls stood up and walked away. In fact, everyone left the room. It was just he and I now. He stood up and walked toward me, erection leading the way. I shifted uneasily. He ran his hands from my wrist shackles to my shoulders, feeling the taut hold of my restraints. Then along the sides of my leather corset, exploring the curve that ran between waist and hips. Then he rested his palms on my shoulders and put his lips to my ear. "We're beyond the gag now." "What do you mean? "I mean I'm getting tired of these refusals. You're here to serve, not to argue. It's going to take more now to convince me of your resolve and to amuse me." "What, then?" He gently, silently traced where the crop had struck my skin earlier. "You want to beat me again, is that it?" The memory of the earlier pain caused me to shudder involuntarily. "No. I'd much prefer to watch you being struck. I enjoy observing your expression at the moment of impact. But not as much as just the moment before, as you anticipate the pain." "The crop again?" My tone of voice bespoke my reluctance. "Not necessarily. You're going to pick this time. You can choose between the flogger, the crop and the cane." "I've never felt any of them…well, except for the crop earlier." "Ah, well I can help you there. The flogger isn't really a sharp pain, more of a thud. It will force you forward but most likely won't evoke that lovely grimace of yours. The crop…well, you know the crop. The cane is quite another matter. You really have to experience it to understand it. The pain becomes stronger several moments after the initial strike. It radiates. It's quite extraordinary, really." It was clear, which his choice would be. Now it was up to me. "Well, if I chose the cane, would it please you?" He ran his hand through my hair, sweetly, lovingly. "It would be…what I would consider to be quite appropriate right now. What you need to experience. And what I need to watch you endure." "Well, how many, then?" "How many do you think it would take to make up for your transgressions? "I don't know. This is new to me…" "Well, let's see. Since we've been together this morning, you've objected at least six times to things I've suggested or to treatments I've had administered." "So, six strokes then? Six cane strokes?" "Are you asking me or telling me?" "Both, I guess." "Why not phrase it the way I'd expect it then?" "Please, Sir," I sighed. "Please, what?" "Please….please have me struck six times with a cane. Please watch me and enjoy my pain. Is that how you want it?" "Better. In time, I'm sure practice will make perfect. One thing more though…" "Yes, Sir?" "No gag. I want you to take the strokes without making a sound." "Sir?" "Today's lesson has been about communication. When to speak. When to stop and accept. You're sadly lacking in these areas, and they're important ones to me. The cane strokes will teach you control…how to control your natural desire to speak…well, in this case, to express sharp pain. I imagine that concentrating on holding your tongue during this exercise will be even more difficult for you than taking the strokes themselves. But that's what I want. As each strike hits, I want you to watch me stroke my cock. If you do as you're told, and you take each stroke correctly-with gratitude and in silence--I'll let you finish the job the girls had started. I believe that's what you asked for in the taxi, anyway, wasn't it?" I let his words sink in. They mingled in my mind with the memory of the slave girls' slender, manicured fingertips inching toward his crotch, eager to please him. There was no way I was going to let that happen. I wanted him. Competitive as always, I wanted to show him I could be everything he wanted. I wanted him satisfied by me and me alone. "So, what's it to be? Six strokes in silence? With a nice little 'Thank you' at the end?" "Yes Sir. Yes, please." He kissed me softly on the cheek. "Good girl," he said. I beamed with pride; those words made everything that had come before seem quite worth it, and almost, just almost, assuaged my forboding of what was to come. He sat back down, and clapped his hands twice. Ms. Catsuit came out from in front of me, brandishing an ominous-looking cane. I wondered if my body was actually going to be able to cash the check my mouth had just written, but as I watched him take out his cock and start stroking it, I knew I was going to force myself to endure whatever it was going to take. "Begin," he ordered and she walked behind me to begin. I don't know which was worse, the first stroke or the ones that followed. The first was terrible because I didn't know what to expect and fear of the unknown always seemed to add that twinge of additional discomfort. But the second one, knowing how the first had stung unremittingly, was worse than anything I had ever experienced or could have imagined. Each stroke hit a different part of my body with an unrelenting slash of fire…each side of my back, above where the corset started, the back of my thighs, the back of my calves. I bit my lip to silence the screams that rose from deep inside, but couldn't prevent the tears that distorted my view of Grahame pleasuring himself as he watched the display. When it was over, I heard myself thank the Mistress for her ministrations, but it was not my voice I heard but a voice that seemingly sprang from somewhere far outside my own body. It was over. I had survived it, with six growing welts and a bloody lip to show for my ordeal. Grahame met my imploring gaze with a nod of approval. Two snaps and the dressers came forward, out of the shadows, each unshackling my wrists and then my ankle cuffs from the floor bolts. The freedom took me by surprise; I hadn't realized how helpful the restraints had been in helping me to tolerate the beating. I began to stumble forward but compassionate hands helped keep me upright. Then the room emptied, leaving the two of us alone. He beckoned me forward and told me to straddle myself over his knees. I obeyed, and then stood motionless as he unsnapped my crotch, thrusting three fingers inside me to sample my reaction to what had just transpired. Not unhappy with the result, he rubbed my ample juices onto his cock and then pushed me back so I remained before him, but no longer on either side of his thighs. One nod and I fell to my knees, his spreading his knees to give me access. I massaged his thighs and scrotum as I took him hungrily into my mouth, eager to show him that he had missed nothing by foregoing Marcelle and Kiana's oral dexterity in favor of my own. I focused full attention on providing him with ultimate pleasure--alternately sucking, licking, running my tongue up and down the shaft, gently mouthing his balls. He reacted silently, restraining himself from giving me the satisfaction of hearing a moan or two, unwilling to give up even that tiny iota of power. But as his craving grew, he made me quite aware of his growing urge to release, grabbing my hair with one hand and my collar with the other, controlling my angle, coordinating the speed of my head with those of his thrusts, until he climaxed, filling my mouth with a stream of hot cum that shot past my tongue and down my throat. As I felt him relax from his orgasm, the strain in his thighs relaxing, the grip of his hands on my hair and collar lessening, I proceeded to clean his cock of any lingering cum, providing any last moments of pleasure I could evoke. Then I looked up, licked my lips for effect, and waited. What I saw surprised me. No look of satisfaction. No visual accolades. Only an expression that a supervisor might shoot an employee for satisfactorily completing a job he'd been hired to do in the first place. I held the stare. So did he. A moment or two passed, the two of us surrounded by black velvet walls, dim lighting and the knowledge that we'd crossed a threshold together. And one of us unsure of what was to come next. "Stand up and pose for me," he finally said, breaking the silence. He'd been quite explicit about the position in our early e-mails. I stood up as directed, spreading my legs about two feet apart, hands behind my back with wrists held by opposing hands, chest thrust forward, lips slightly apart, gaze straight forward with no particular focus. He stood and walked toward me, cupping my left breast and then moving his grip forward to pull the nipple out. He repeated the move again and again, each time pulling harder, farther. I refused to complain or to deny him. As he studied and stretched, apparently equally fascinated by how far the nipple could grow and how submissive I'd become. When he did address me, it was almost as an aside. "Whose body is this, Dana?" "Yours, Sir." "You sure about that?" "Yes, Sir." "Mine, to do with as I please?" "Yes, Sir." "And if I want it in pain?" "Then it will be in pain." "Why?" "Because that's what you require, Sir." "I told you earlier that it wouldn't be the restraints or my strength that will bind you to me. I told you by the end of the day, you'd understand exactly what it would be. Do you think you can guess now as to what it is?" "Your pleasure, Sir? And my need to provide you with that pleasure?" "You're getting closer, Dana. Perhaps the next phase will bring it into even sharper focus." He gave me one last hard pull on my nipple, a gentle graze to my cheek with the back of his palm and then two snaps of his fingers, prompting Ms. Catsuit and her kinky entourage of dressers and slave girls to reappear. "I think we're ready for next door," he said to them. "Prepare her." Communication Skills Ch. 04 Part IV: Lip Service The slave girls who had emerged from the shadows upon Grahame's command fitted me with black leather wrist cuffs to match my ankle cuffs and collar. What the well-dressed slave is wearing this year, I mused. Then I watched him walk over to Ms. Catsuit and whisper something into her ear, gently grazing her cheek with the back of his hand, as if to remind her of a tenderness that had existed between them long ago. I yearned for that warmth to exist between the he and I, but based on his recent reaction to my oral skills, I knew that it would be a long time in coming. He glanced over and saw me observing him. He looked almost amused. "Eyes down!" he ordered. I lowered my gaze, but still felt the flush of anger and yearning in my cheeks. Why wasn't I enough for him? Ms. Catsuit snapped her fingers twice and the three slave girls started to lead me away, for whatever "preparations" Grahame had pre-ordered. I felt a sudden chill, unsure if it was because I was nervous of what lay ahead or because I was wearing nothing other than a corset, cuffs, a collar and my own pair of stiletto heels. "Wait!" he commanded. My eyes still cast downwards, I felt the tug on my leash slacken as my "escorts" halted our departure from the room where I had just been displayed and humiliated for Grahame's amusement and apparently, for my own edification. He walked up and bent slightly to whisper in my ear, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. I ached to reach out and wrap my arms around his neck, kiss him deeply, beg him to take me somewhere private where we could be alone, to play and to talk. But his business-like tone of voice warned me that this would not be the time. "Dana, I've got some things that I have to take care of at work. I'm going to leave you here, under the care of these lovely ladies. Just do exactly as you're told and you'll be fine. Disobey and they've been given detailed instructions on how to handle your insurrections, as I might if we were alone. Do you understand?" "Yes, Grahame," I answered. "It's Sir, always Sir," he corrected softly. "First names are for equals, dear." And then there were just footsteps and the click of the door. I felt my heart sink. "Come," one of the women said. "We're going to get you ready." "Ready for what?" I shot back. The girls giggled and then pulled on the leash. There were four in our little 'slave pack'--Marcelle, the Caucasian girl in the lead, myself, Kiana, the Asian girl to my left and the Nigerian, who introduced herself as Katura, bringing up the rear, so to speak. They opened a door and led me into a much brighter space, white tiles, mirrors, showers, a large whirlpool bath--just like the type of locker room you'd expect at an upscale spa. Marcelle started to unbuckle my collar as the other two girls each bent down at my sides, removing my wrist and ankle cuffs and my shoes. Last to go was my corset. I felt strange without them, as if they somehow belonged on me now. There was silence other than the gurgle of water as they filled the whirlpool, adding bath salts and rosebuds to the mix. The room smelled divine. "Get in," Marcelle invited, her words betraying the hint of a French accent. I climbed into the tub, eager to feel the warm water comforting my newly bruised and welted skin. A moment of pure luxury, perfect until I noticed Marcelle taking off the little she was wearing, revealing one of the most exquisite bodies I'd ever seen. I stared, silently cursing myself for all the times I'd broken my diet and exercise routine. Then I noticed that she was joining me in the bath, soft soap in one hand, and washcloth in the other. "What are you doing?" I asked, noticeably uncomfortable. "You relax. You've been through a lot this morning. I'm going to wash you." "That's okay, I can do that myself," I protested. I wasn't used to all this attention, especially from another woman. I didn't 'do' women, even though I'd been approached in the past, especially online. "Miss Dana, it's my job. If I don't fulfill my assignments, the Mistress will beat me. Please allow me to do as I've been told," she implored. I relented. I didn't want to see her receive the treatment I'd just suffered, especially for doing nothing more than her job. I closed my eyes and pretended I was royalty, Cleopatra perhaps, and that I thought nothing of having a beautiful slave girl caress each of my limbs, my torso, my most private crevices, as part of her everyday chores. I felt myself slip into an almost trancelike state as she did her duty. As the washcloth traced each welt, I relived the moment I had received it, and felt an deep desire for Grahame to touch me there, the two of us finally alone. After completing the bath and shampooing my hair, the other slaves assisted Marcelle in toweling me dry, fitting me with terrycloth robe and slippers and leading me into a second room, more of a beauty parlor, where the they blew out my hair, reapplied my makeup and gave me a foot massage and pedicure. Then Katura and Kiana left, leaving me alone with Marcelle, who proceeded to give me a manicure. "I'd never wear that color," I said, referring to a garish red she had on the table, along with the emery boards, soaking dish and other manicure tools. "Do you have something a little less...bright?" I meant less whorish but I didn't want to offend, since I noticed that Marcelle herself was wearing a similar color on her nails. "I'm sorry, Master's orders," she answered and continued on with her duties. That was that, apparently. I studied her as she soaked my fingers and shaped my nails. So beautiful, apparently well spoken, seemingly smart. What was someone like that be doing here, using her brain for nothing more than obeying the orders of various Masters and Mistresses? My imagination hijacked my thoughts; I pictured the whole scene—a naïve, teen-age Marcelle, lured from her native France by some seemingly sophisticated American businessman who promised her fame and fortune modeling in America. Once here though, she found herself forced into slavery, washing dungeon floors until she came of age, at which time she became a sexual slave as well. And here she sat before me, alone, frightened, and worst of all, unaware of the opportunities that existed for women in the real world, outside this fetish shop-cum-dungeon-cum-spa. Here was my chance to make a difference in her world! "So, Marcelle..." I started, almost whispering so I didn't risk putting her in danger. "Have you ever thought about leaving this place?" "Oh, no, Ma'am." "But you're so beautiful, I'm sure you could get a real job," I continued, my voice still low. "I'm a journalist so I have connections in a number of fields. If you were interested, I'm sure I could help." "You are funny," She laughed loudly, splitting her attention between cutting my cuticles and answering my question. "You're actually the first to try and liberate me! Most who come here just accept that a woman's position is that of her Master's or Mistress' making. Why do you not see this as a real job?" "Do you get paid for it?" I asked. "There are rewards greater than money, you know. You're new to this, it's clear. You don't understand yet." "I don't understand? Understand what?" I asked, a bit taken back that she wasn't eager to jump ship. "You think that because you read Ms. Magazine and belonged to NOW growing up, that a woman always wants to be treated as an equal by a man. It's not that way for all women though. Certainly not that way for us." "Us?" I repeated, trying to fathom why anyone would want to be kept underfoot. A sex game was one thing but this was real life. "Us. The women in the 'life'. What the Women's Rights Movement gave us was the ability to make our own choices. Fine. My choice is to be the property of my Master, to do as he commands. The truth is, I normally work uptown. But my schedule is flexible and my Master requires me to work here twice or three times a week. He says that it reminds me of where I belong. And of course, he's right." "Are you a secretary there? Or a receptionist?" I asked, figuring that perhaps working here appealed since it was a break from the doldrums of typing and making coffee. "No, actually I teach biochemistry at Columbia," she answered. She acknowledged my look of incredulity with an air of amusement but didn't comment. "You teach science at an Ivy League college and yet you choose to be here, constantly at someone else's beck and call?" I asked, stunned. "Yes. It soothes my soul," she answered dryly as she walked me to a seat in front of a contraption that heated my fingertips with ultraviolet light and fanned them to a glossy finish. "Perhaps one day, if you meet each of your Master's requirements with acceptance rather than protest, your soul will also be soothed and you will understand. I wish that for you. Truly." And with that, she walked away. A few minutes later, the bell rang, indicating that my nails were dry. As if summoned by the sound, all three girls reappeared and led me, clean, coiffed and confused by my encounter with Marcelle, to a third room, this one even smaller, dimly lit, with classical music playing softly in the background. I stood for a moment studying my new surroundings. The room was mirrored on all sides as well as on the ceiling and the only piece of furniture was a massage table, set up in the middle of the floor. This massage table was different than any I'd ever seen; it was larger than most and had eyehooks all around the edges of the mattress as well as around the padded opening toward the top, apparently set up so you could rest your head comfortably without restricting your breath. The girls tried to lead me to the table but I held back. "What now?" I wavered, fear of the unknown creeping into my voice again. "Nothing bad," assured Kiana in a whisper, pushing me forward. "Just some massaging, some kneading, some stretching. Just as Master Gaines ordered. Relax!" As they lay me down, face down, they pulled my arms forward past my head and clipped them into place and spread my legs about 18 inches apart and where the girls' hands held them into place. My head went over the padded opening and my collar was secured as well. I felt a heavy belt being secured over the small of my back. Unable to even turn my head from side to side, I could see nothing but the floor, and that left me very uneasy. Though I was comfortable, it was also clear that I had no choice but to stay put until they decided otherwise. The massage began. To my surprise and relief, it was like any other massage I'd ever had, except that five pairs of hands were working me at once, one on each leg, one on each arm, and one covering my shoulders and back. Any area that wasn't hidden under a belt or restraint was kneading and soothed with warm oil, easing out the kinks. After about five minutes, I relaxed and gave myself up to the pleasure of it all. After about 15 minutes, I heard Ms. Catsuit enter the room, her stilettos giving her identity away, and simultaneously bringing an end to my massage. Hands were repositioned to my thighs and ankles, again restraining me and forcing my legs apart. "Well, Dana, how do you feel now? Properly relaxed for your Master, are we?" she asked in her Dutch accent. "Yes, Ma'am." I'd almost forgotten about the wrist restraints. I pulled at them now, testing them. There was no give. The same was true with my legs; the girls' grip was stronger than I had imagined. "Ah good. Time for some stretching then," she said wryly. Working with the girls' assistance, I felt her brusquely attach some straps around my hips and then ran something that felt like a hard piece of plastic through my crotch, opening up my labial lips, so that it was positioned right on my clit. It pinched my lips a little, prompting me to try and wriggle to reposition it but my efforts were useless. Then I felt something much bigger slowly being pushed up into my cunt. I instantly tensed, making its path even more narrow and painful, as I bucked against the girls' hold on me. "Stop, oh God, stop!" I begged, unaccustomed to the feeling of a dildo inside me, no matter how lubed it might be. My words were ignored. I tried desperately to jerk away and force it out but I felt her attach something else through my crotch and over my hips that secured it into place; I assume it was a harness of sorts. Then the girls attached my ankle restraints to the eyeholes on the table and departed. There was to be no escape from the dildo tearing my cunt open or the plastic apparatus covering my clit. "Oh, I wouldn't bother about that, Dana," the Mistress said, acknowledging my attempts to escape the intrusion. "That's going to provide you with the pleasant part of this exercise. Now, down to business. Master Grahame has asked me to ask you something. Truth only, do you understand? For your own sake." "Yes, Ma'am," I grunted, the dildo causing me considerable agony. "Have you ever been sodomized, Dana?" My body automatically lurched in response to the image that question evoked, but the heavy belt over the small of my back kept it securely in place. I suddenly realized that my back and cunt were not the only exceptionally vulnerable parts of my body. My ass was totally exposed as well and I couldn't do anything to defend it. "I asked you a question. Answer!" she demanded. "Y-Y-Yes, Ma'am. If you're asking if I've had anal sex, then yes. But it was a long time ago and..." "How big was he, Dana?" she interrupted, uninterested in my explanations. "I-I-I don't remember. Average size, I guess...but I really didn't enj..." "Quiet!" she barked. I obeyed. "Hit the table three times Dana, with your left hand." Confused, I did as she asked. "That's your safe signal. If you want things to end, that's what you need to do. Remember though, safe signaling will have the same ramifications as safwording. Everything will stop and you'll be free to go. But Master Grahame wanted me to remind you that safe signaling will also mean that once you leave this place, you will never see or hear from him again. Understood?" "Yes, Ma'am," I answered, tears starting to well in my eyes. I had a feeling I knew what was coming. Sure enough, Marcelle suddenly came into my vision, a leather phallic gag in her hand. "Shhh," she whispered, warning me against crying or resisting. "This can go so much easier for you if you just relax. Believe me, I've been there! Now open wide. She'll cane the both of us for any delays, you know." I considered my choice: either the radiating anguish of the cane that I had endured only about an hour earlier, or a revisiting of the terror of being totally out of control, now losing my voice as well as the use of my arms, legs and vision. Then I realized that there wasn't a choice. I could take the gag or I would take both. Reluctantly, I opened my mouth and she pushed the leather penis inside, pushing the straps up either side of my head so they could be attached from above. As my eyes filled with tears and resignation, she gave me a wink and disappeared from sight. "Two holes filled, time for a third," chirped Ms. Catsuit. It was the happiest I'd heard her this entire morning. "You must be stretched for your Master's pleasure, Dana. Nothing must impede his pleasure of your body, least of all an unaccommodating cunt or asshole. We'll use a dildo one size larger than an average cock. Understood?" I grunted in agreement, my mouth stretched and filled with the acrid taste of leather. "Here's what's going to happen, Dana," she continued. "I will strap on a 7" cock, lube it up and give you 100 strokes. As I'm raping your ass, I'll also remotely switch on the vibrator that's resting on your clit. That way, you'll have some pleasure mixed with your pain, an important association for you to experience. Now, if the pain becomes too much to take, you can signal me to stop your rape. To do that, you must hit the table once. Do that now for me, please." I did as she asked, at least relieved that I had some power in this exercise. "Very good. When you hit the table, I will take a one-minute break, but the vibrator will also stop, and won't be turned on again until after the next five strokes when I resume. Pure intrusion, no pleasure. Your penalty for the delay. Understood?" Again, I grunted in the affirmative. "The amount of your discomfort will be directly tied to how hard you resist the cock. Accept its path, accept that you must endure this to better pleasure your Master and you'll fare much better." I heard her move around a bit and I pictured her putting on the strap-on and lubing it up. I'd had even less experience with this than I'd had with a dildo but I kept trying to force my sphincter muscles to relax. I heard her climb onto the table and felt the leather member at the tip of my anus. I wanted to grit my teeth to brace myself but even that privilege had been stripped from me by the gag. I dug my nails into the mattress instead. She turned the vibrator on low. Ripples of pleasure began to invade my cunt but before I could focus on it, she plunged her cock into my asshole, no gentle introduction to my torture as I felt it rip me apart. "One." The voice was familiar; I realized that Grahame must have returned and was watching my ordeal from behind what must have been one-way mirrors, counting my torture through a microphone. Ms. Catsuit's plunges were savage and deep, becoming faster and faster as the encounter continued. Grahame counted each stroke, every number coming out as an unimpressed monotone. I didn't know where to concentrate first. I was torn between the pleasure on my clit and the relentless invasion of my ass, the pinching in my cunt from the dildo there, the tight restriction of my limbs from my restraints, the smell and taste of the leather, the sound of Grahame's voice. I was a mass of pain and pleasure and sensation, an entity outside of my own body. At around number 25, I could take no more. I banged the table once and both the strap-on and the vibrator ceased. There was silence in the room for about a minute as I tried to recapture some sense of reality. But there was nowhere to go, no reprieve from this lesson in humiliation unless I banged out my safeword and in doing so, giving up my dream of having Grahame to myself, ever. After a minute, the cock resumed its drilling into my ass and I heard Grahame's voice again. But I hadn't realized how the vibrator had lessened some of the pain I had been enduring. I groaned with each of the next five strokes, feeling them split me in half, like a fish being gutted, its entrails being pulled from its body. My fingertips and toenails bore into the mattress so deeply, I'm sure I tore the sheet covering it. When the vibrator resumed again after stroke 30, I renewed my determination to focus the best I could on the pleasure. At about number 45, the pain suddenly dissipated and all I felt was the warmth of the room, the fullness of my orifices, and the ecstacy mounting between my labial lips. I was confused...where was the pain? Why had I been spared? I was almost afraid to surrender to what I was feeling...utter calm, a total lack of tension, just floating along as if part of the entire universe, with no separation between the body and the air around it. At number 60, the orgasms started to rip through my body, one after another, unabated, just adding to the euphoria I was experiencing, building a stepladder to paradise. I felt each contraction flow from deep inside me to the ends of my toes and my fingertips, and then released into the world, surrounding me, swathing me in peace and pleasure. The orgasms continued until I heard Grahame intone, "One hundred." And everything ceased except for the floating feeling I was enjoying, something I'd never known before. "This must be what heroin feels like" I thought to myself, lost in what I hoped would never be taken from me. Communication Skills Ch. 05 Part V: The Surrogate "I'm waiting," he whispered to me in a deep, steady voice. "Pick one." We were at a private, yet surprisingly crowded play party at an investment banker's ultra-chic loft on Barclay Street near the Seaport. Grahame knew some very rich and powerful people, much like himself, who needed to keep low profiles. They all belonged to Privileged, a club of select kinksters who threw 'networking' parties on the third Friday of every month, far from the watchful and no doubt disapproving eyes of the hoi polloi. Nothing was off-limits at one of these $1,000 per person events—fire play, meat hook suspension, sex on display—you could, and usually would, see edgeplay at its edgiest at a Privileged fete. (The money would cover the elaborate food and drink selection as well as the cost of the doctors kept on call at the event—just in case.) You'd also usually see me being strung up and tortured in some way—'Dana on Parade' is what Grahame liked to call it—an elaborate and ever-changing scene that would be designed to reinforce in my mind exactly who was in charge between us. Because of course, as anyone who knew my independent nature and smartass retorts realized, I often needed reminding. However, tonight was not a 'Dana on Parade' evening. No, tonight was 'Partner Shopping Night'. Grahame had often commented on how much he had enjoyed my initial breaking a year earlier, when a Domme had raped me with a strap-on for his viewing pleasure. It had been my first bi- experience and while he had not forced me to repeat the event, he had repeatedly dangled the threat of a repeat performance over my head. Earlier this week, when I asked him if we were attending Privileged this month as there was a matter of the RSVP to contend with, he had mentioned that we would be going, but only so I could pick out the hottest woman at the party to bring home. The choice had to be mine, he had always said, because I had to be complicit in the act, even if it were only the choice of the partner involved, because that act made me an active participant. Grahame loved the idea of my participating in my own humiliation. So here I was, 48 years old and only a little conscious of the fact that most of the women at this party were models no more than about half my age. Grahame nursed his single-malt and reminded me again that I had one chore at this party and I'd better get it done in the next ten minutes or else he would NOT be happy. I scanned the throng for someone who fit the description—someone that I thought he would think was the very hottest and most desirable woman in the room—but it was very hard to narrow down the cut. He had a broad and diverse taste in women but with a definite preference for the exotic, and many here met the criteria. I looked back at him, hoping that I'd get a clue by watching whom he watching, but much to my dismay, he wasn't looking at the women in the room at all. No, he was staring down at his stopwatch, most likely just for my benefit, a perverse little smile dancing around on his lips. He was a stickler for time and I knew if I missed the deadline, my ass would soon resemble the Steak Tartare featured at the buffet table. I walked through the rooms with about a minute to spare, anxious and desperate, when I saw HER. Tall, long-legged, long auburn hair up in a twist, perfect-figure—a Salma Hayek lookalike—and one of the most beautiful women I'd ever laid eyes upon. She was wearing a simple black halter dress, nothing even particularly fetishy—her subtlety setting her apart from the others in the room. The only clue that she was kinky was the choker collar she was wearing, a purple one which in Privileged code meant that she was either single and available for Doms' pleasure, or that she had a Master who was putting her out for play that night. I had one task and I took a deep breath, exhaled deeply and summoned up my courage as I approached her. "Hi. I have a task from my Master. He has asked me to find him the prettiest woman in the room, find out her name so I could introduce her correctly, and then take her back to him. Are you free to help me with my task?" The woman glanced with questioning eyes at a man whom I assumed was her Master. He just nodded once and she looked at me again, a resigned look on her face. "My nickname is Jacinta," she responded in a slightly Brazilian accent, "and it is my Master's wish that I agree to whatever is asked of me this evening, so yes, I will help you with your task," she responded. I could immediately sense that we were two women being thrust into something we didn't really want to do, just to please the men we adored. I felt a kinship with her in that and relaxed just a little bit as I led her to Grahame, her Master following us as well. She assumed a standard pose when we stopped in front of him—her hands behind her neck, fingers entwined, her legs spread wide, her gaze cast downward. She was far better trained than I, I thought to myself, but then again, she was put together better as well. That "kinship connection" was starting to fade. "Sir, this is Jacinta." "And Dana, why have you brought her to me?" "Because she is the hottest girl in the room and that is what you wanted me to select for you." "Pose." I hated posing in public. It always seemed like it was just an ego-booster for him, to show the world that yes, he could get a woman to do this, but I complied because...well, honestly? Because that little competitive voice in my brain told me that I needed to pose and just a bit better than my newfound friend to my right. He walked up close to me, pulled my head back with a sharp pull to my hair and whispered into my ear, "Truth now. Is she so hot that it makes you uncomfortable that I'm meeting her now?" Grahame knew I was the world's most jealous sub and I knew he enjoyed playing with that. In fact, he loved playing with all the various aspects of my psychology, and tended to linger on those that were most difficult for me. "Yes, Sir." "Good girl." I felt a combination of pride and a sense of relief—maybe this wouldn't go so hard on me, now that he was pleased with my performance. He walked back to Jacinta's Master and the two spoke in hushed tones, out of earshot though I tried hard to eavesdrop. They shook hands and then Grahame walked back to Jacinta and whispered something in her ear. It hurt to watch him that close to such a beautiful woman—easily within touching range--but I comforted myself in the knowledge that he wanted to watch me with her and would unlikely get involved himself. Still, the thought that I had gone out of my way to introduce him to the hottest woman at the party was disquieting. She stood silently and listened, nodding occasionally to acknowledge his words. Then he stood back and asked, "Jacinta, do you agree?" "Yes, Sir." "Then we're off. " Grahame had Jacinta and I lead the way back to the limo, her Master apparently staying at the party. There would be no leashes or being tied up and dragged out of the party, either. We had to go willingly to the car. It was part of the mindfuck—by walking out of our own accord and going to the car—leading the way, in fact--we were implicitly agreeing to whatever came next. That's the way his mind worked. In the limo, he gave the driver a note, closed the privacy partition, and then sat Jacinta and I next to each other, with him sitting opposite. There were no words—just Grahame looking Jacinta up and down like a famished dog looking over a pork chop, with me in the perfect position to watch. I knew he was just doing it for effect, but it still was making me ache. He looked good—even better than usual, clad in his Armani blue suit—and I hadn't been with him for nearly a week. I wanted his hands on me and badly. After about 45 minutes, we pulled up outside the Ritz Carlton. I knew we weren't going to Grahame's—he was far too private a person to invite someone there that he'd never met before—but I also think he liked the impersonal nature of hotel rooms, creating a psychological separation between our "real" relationship together and whatever "special events" he planned between us. He apparently had already checked in earlier since we bypassed the concierge and went right up to the Penthouse level, unescorted by hotel staff. Grahame led the way with Jacinta between us, and I trailed behind. I watched her follow him, her steps seemed slow and trepidatious, and I wondered if she was reconsidering her assent to our arrangement. Secretly, I was hoping she'd back down but being a pragmatist, I knew Grahame would hold her to the deal. We got to the door and Grahame called me to the front. He handed me the key, which I placed into the slot, an action which again acknowledged my agreement to the scene that was about to ensue. Grahame was insistent on that, always, because I think he knew that once I agreed, it would create too much cognitive dissonance for me to change my mind, especially since I hated both disappointing him and admitting I'd made a mistake. I pushed the door open and entered; he turned and explained to Jacinta that it was her job to put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign and lock the door behind the three of us, a secondary acknowledgment of her acceptance as well. She complied without a word—no smartass remarks, no hesitancy. I wondered if that sort of compliance, on an extended basis, would bore Grahame (what, no pushback?) or delight him. His face gave nothing away; I'm sure that was totally calculated on his part. I looked around the suite, and headed into the bedroom. He'd set it up already in an arrangement that surprised me—a king-size, four-poster bed, with a straight-back desk chair facing the bed to watch, and video cameras facing both the bed and the chair. Surprisingly, rope was in a pile on the floor but by the chair and not the bed. That was unexpected. Grahame and Jacinta followed me shortly afterward and I turned to him with questioning eyes. A minute of silence followed where he just stared at me, bemused. Jacinta was, of course, self-posed and staring at the ground. Show-off. Finally, the silence got to me and never being one to mince words or let an opportunity get by for some levity, I asked, "So, where's she going to sleep?" "I'm not sure I like your tone, Dana and I definitely don't like your impertinence. I really don't want our guest here influenced or mis-trained in any way by your bad example. Apologize please." Apologize? I don't think so. " I was just lightening up an awkward moment, Sir... I'm only looking for direction so I can best please you." "So you're disagreeing with me as well?" "I'd call it clarification, actually. Sir." Okay, I know I was smiling a teasing smile when I said it but he apparently wasn't in the mood for teasing because his hand came across my cheek with a force that nearly knocked me off balance and definitely knocked the wind out of me, mostly because of the surprise. Then he hit the other cheek, knocking me off-kilter in the other direction. I backed away, my hands on my cheek out of self-preservation but he reached out and jerked me to him by the front of my dress, actually ripping it with the strength of his pull. I think the rip surprised him, but not one to leave a job half-done, he pulled again and it ripped apart. Then he just stood back and stared as I felt myself turning red with a mixture of regret, fear and humiliation. "Take the rest off" he said, disgusted, and turned his back to me as I did it. I was immediately sorry that I'd tried to be cute and I didn't know how to rectify the situation so I just did what he asked, took off my bra and panties and my shoes, and then not knowing quite what to do, I posed and felt the tears welling in my eyes. He came to me, I stared down at his Norvegeses. He placed his finger under my chin and lifted my face up to stare at his. His other hand came around and though I flinched, waiting for him to slap me again; he instead gently wiped the teardrops from my eyes. "Don't waste time feeling too contrite, Darling," he said softly, brushing his lips against my forehead. "You'll be making up for your indiscretions quite adequately with what I have planned. Now are you going to do this willingly, as someone who loves me as you claim to, or am I going to have to force you to obey, which would, of course, make our guest here question my ability to instill order in my home and with my property?" I was somewhat grateful that he was giving me a second chance and I nodded my head up and down in agreement. "Yes, Sir." "Okay, then. Please go to the chair and sit down." The chair? I was going to the chair? My first instinct was to question him again but I thought better of it. I just sat down and he came to me and started tying my arms and legs to the chair. They weren't loose ties either, they were just shy of cutting off my circulation. Grahame didn't bother with handcuffs anymore as he knew I'd usually find a way to get myself loose. But we both knew that I was defenseless against his rope ties and so he used that almost exclusively now when he wanted me to stay put. My arms were attached tightly to the top of the armrests, my legs threaded through the armrests and tied, so there was no way for me to close my thighs or hide my most private parts. "Struggle," he said, wanting me to test the ropes. I knew better than to answer with a sarcastic remark again and did as I was told, struggling as hard as I could to test the give. He sensed that the left ankle was a little loose and retied that portion, summoning me to test again. I did. No give. I normally would have continued struggling as it turned me on no end to feel that there was no escape, but I was too confused for that right now. Grahame went to the video cameras and turned them on. Then he went and took Jacinta by the hand, leading her out of her pose and brought her to the edge of the bed to sit down. He sat next to her, in front of me. She looked downward, he stared me straight in the eyes. "Dana, why do you suppose you're in the chair?" he asked, gently stroking Jacinta's hair without shifting his gaze from mine. "Sir, I don't know. I had assumed you'd be sitting here, watching me with Jacinta." "Ah, but I'm not, am I?" Gulp. "No, Sir." "Let me explain what is going to happen here, Dana, because you are going to be a very active participant in our little encounter. Are you ready to give me your full attention without interruption?" "Yes, Sir." "Jacinta is very desirable, don't you think?" She'd be even more desirable tied to a block of cement, as it sank to the bottom of the swimming pool. "Yes, Sir." "Being a man of refined taste and healthy sexual appetite, it would be unnatural for me not to want to use a lovely young lass as a play toy, wouldn't it?" He moved his hand from her hair to the strap of her dress, which he slid down over her right shoulder, leaving part of her breast exposed. She sat motionless, silent. A mannequin. I, on the other hand, felt my blood pressure rising. "I suppose it would." "So why do you suppose you're tied to that chair, Dana?" "To keep me from scratching her eyes out?" I couldn't help it. It was worth it just to see Ms. Perfect flinch, just a smidgen, when I said it. I knew I'd pay for it though. Grahame shook his head in that "What a lost cause--when will she ever learn?" kind of way, but he refused to let my truculence interfere with his speech. However, I sensed that this might be a good time to start biting my tongue. "You're tied there because it will ensure that you do your job. Would you like to know what your job is?" No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me. "Yes, Sir." "Now your job—and the reason you are not blindfolded or gagged—is one that will take advantage of your wonderful ability to try to control and direct what's going on around you. You know, that charming habit you have of topping from below?" "Sir?" "Oh, you don't do it directly, of course. You do it through sarcasm and through attempted humor and acting out of turn. But this time, you're going to use your directing talent productively." "Um, yes, Sir," I answered, still unsure of where this was going. "You will be directing the play scene Jacinta and I are going to have together. You --without sarcasm or humor –are going to tell her how to best please me and then you're going to narrate what I'm doing to her," he explained. Excuse me? I'm what?! "And do you know why you're going to do it?" Because you're the most sadistic man who ever walked the earth? "No, Sir." The reason you are going to direct her is because you know what I like. My pleasure is important to you, is it not?" No, the pleasure I give you is important to me. "Yes, Sir." "If that's true, then you'll want to make sure that my pleasure is overwhelmingly satisfying, will you not?" I nodded "yes" while gauging just how much force it would take to head butt Jacinta so she'd fall out of the 8th story window about, oh, 15 feet behind her. "Now, the reason you'll also be narrating what I'm doing is because I want to make sure you understand exactly what's happening between the lovely Jacinta and I, that every movement is sinking in. The camera will tape each of your facial expressions and body movements, limited as they may be. Tomorrow, I'll be comparing the videotape to your narration and if anything is even a little off, you are going to be punished for it and not in any way you are going to enjoy. " My reaction was one of both horror and outrage and I had no doubt that the camera captured that particular combination for posterity. I didn't know quite what to say. I was supposed to sit here, in fact, have no choice but to sit here, and not only watch my lover fuck a woman who was younger and more beautiful than I was, but to describe it as well? And to help her pleasure him and make him as happy as I made him in bed? He was MINE, damn it. Didn't he realize that? Didn't he know how jealous I was of any woman who he even glanced at? Didn't he know?? But of course he did. That's exactly why he was doing that, to force me to face my fears and live through the worst. He knew it and I knew it. He pushed Jacinta's dress strap further down her arm and her right breast was completely freed from its confinement. He started absent-mindedly playing with her nipple while still facing me. "You haven't mouthed off for a moment or two, Dana, so I'm wondering, are you clear on your responsibilities?" I hadn't realized the tears falling down my hot cheeks and my voice was shaky and weak as I answered, "Yes Sir, I am clear." "Ahhh, good," he answered, completely ignoring my upset. "Now Sir Patrick, who is Jacinta's Master, will be making sure you don't take your eyes off the scene or alternately, get so caught up in your voyeuristic activities that you fail to do your duty. He will be zapping you each time you try to look away or your commentary slows down. Now, I know how you love electrical play (Yeah, right) which is why I selected the cattle prod, rather than the crop or cane, to remind you of your duties." I had been so stunned by the scene Grahame was describing that I hadn't noticed that Sir Patrick had let himself into the room and was standing beside me. He must have come into the suite just behind Jacinta while I was exploring the bedroom, and I just hadn't noticed. But there he was now, totally naked, very dark-skinned and handsome, with soulful dark eyes and a black beard and mustache. And yes, he had a cattle prod in his hand and the entire scene must have been exciting him no end because his own little personal prod was poking at my arm. Even Grahame had yet to touch me with the cattle prod, but he used it often as a threatening device, because he knew I would do practically anything to avoid it. And here it was, in the hands of a man I didn't even know. The evening was not going as I'd hoped it would.