Thursday, 28 April 2011


"You said you'd phone."

"Well, I didn't."

If anyone else had pulled this shit on me, I'd have been disgusted, called them unreliable, taken the high ground; but instead I just stood there, watching his unruffled demeanour, and felt my clit start to pulse.

There was no explanation, no apology. He knew there was no need for them, that I just had to accept it, and like it. All I could do was sit down at his feet, and say "OK."

He patted my head. "Good girl." Such a basic form of humiliation and reward, I was being conditioned like a dog. He knew that I saw all his tricks, and they just made me like him more. I'd always been longing for someone who I'd let treat me like this, someone who could find the sweet spot between trust and betrayal. I didn't expect he'd have been the one to tame me, but somehow he'd slipped past my defenses.

He went back to his reading. I didn't enjoy being ignored, but I knew I was doing what he wanted by suffering it, and that made me feel good, proud, aroused. After a while, I was granted something to occupy myself, he didn't look at me, but held out a finger of his left hand. I slid it into my mouth, suckling on it, feeling peace and contentment make my mind fuzzy. I lost track of how long I was there, but after a while, he stood up and I knew the games were starting in earnest.

"What have you been doing today?" He had a way of asking questions that chilled me: his tone of voice was so kind, almost soothing, but always pinpointing whatever I felt most guilty about at the time.

"Um, nothing really, just been doing some stuff online." We both knew what that meant. At best reading porn, at worst...

"Trying to get some sad fuckers to wank about you?"

I blushed and felt sick. It wasn't like that, I just liked chatting to people, but he knew that a small part of me worried about why I was doing it, some twisted, self destructive part of me, the part that he'd made friends with, the part he used against me.

I'm an emotional masochist, I don't seek after the traditional kinds of degradation and humiliation, but shoot the right pointed comment at my heart, one that finds my weak spots, and, damn, that's hot.

He sighed. "Now, we've talked about this before, you need to stop wasting your time, you're not getting any younger," he explained patiently. "You need to be getting a better job, you're not going to find anyone to support you at your age, you know."

My anger flared, there were so many things wrong with what he was saying, that all the conflicting emotions made me incoherent, "I don't... I'm not... that's so fucking out of order!"

His eyes glinted in triumph, I'd let myself down so early, so easily. He was getting too good at this. Gone were the days of calling me a slut, a tease, a desperate little whore. Things I was prepared for, that took hours of teasing and mind games before I snapped.

He said nothing but his expression clearly said 'you think you get to tell me I'm out of order?'

I was helpless with shame, this was going to be bad, but according to the unspoken rules, I knew I deserved a punishment. I braced myself.

Suddenly the left side of my face was on fire, my ear was ringing and I had a massive dump of chemicals racing around me. His hand had moved so fast, with so little warning that I had to guess it had been a sharp and precise slap causing the pain.

I just stood there in shock, and felt those heavy, hot tears start to roll down my face. His mouth twitched in delight as he watched them. I think he might have liked watching me silently cry more than anything else we did.

He was waiting for something. What could it be? Oh, of course. "Thank you, sir." I said contritely.

His hand brushed my sore cheek tenderly, so fucking tenderly that my tears burst forth stronger than ever. "There, that's better, isn't it?"

I nodded. He was right as usual, the overwhelming feeling of relief when I got to the other side was so pure, so untainted, that I was utterly addicted.

He slid his hand up my skirt, softly stroking me through my knickers. "Tell me why you're wet."

"Because I love this. Because I need your discipline. Because... I'm weak."

"Mmmm, good. Bedroom."

We screwed the same way we played head games, like music made with telepathic understanding, no plan, no script, just a perfectly timed ebb and flow.

He punctuated his fucking with gentle cruelty. "Frankly, you don't really need to be here, I'm only interested in your body, you can just fuck off, think about something else, or better yet..." he pulled my head back so he could hiss in my ear, "stop thinking altogether."

The combination of deep pleasure and relentless mindfucking meant I couldn't think even if I wanted to. I don't know he did it, every time was different, but he could somehow tell what would push me into that magic zone where everything fell away apart from him and me, where we were dark and golden.

I was moved around like a doll, I'd come to know his favourite positions and slipped into them smoothly with very little guidance, his hands could puppet me easily now. It didn't even faze me when I was turned completely around, pivoting on his cock, one minute rammed face down into the mattress, the next, legs over his shoulders gazing into the eyes that pierced my soul.

We were raw at times like this, all the bullshit ripped away. It wasn't about sub and dom any more, wasn't about pain and psychology, just need, awe, completion.

In the afterglow of another shining orgasm, I gazed at him lovingly, enjoying the moments I had while he was mellow and quiet. "That was incredible," I whispered, smiling hesitantly, hoping I'd done enough for the night.

My heart sank as I saw the light in his eyes change. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it, I didn't get that much out of it..."

"I don't believe you," I tried, but my voice wavered, the tears were back.

"Well, I just do it as a kindness, this isn't really my kind of thing."

I felt like an insect. "What do you mean?"

"Fuck, honey," he stroked my hair but there was no warmth in his touch, "it's all a bit... pointless isn't it? I don't want someone who has to try to please me, I want someone who doesn't need to be shown how to be a real woman. I mean I know it's all you can manage, but it's more of a charity thing for me."

"Stop it! I can't handle this!" I blurted out through my sobs, but he just narrowed his eyes at me, looked slightly disappointed.


My emotions were reeling, I felt like everything I held dear had been flayed to a pulp, but did I really need him to stop? I looked woozily at him, tears drying slightly, trying to see something to help me decide.

His gaze was cool and clear, no remorse, no concern, but also no anger or frustration. He was just waiting, watching, dispassionately interested in how I'd respond.

Of course, he'd never give anything away, he always played things absolutely for real, and to all intents and purposes it was real. I just had to take a leap of faith or admit that he'd beaten me.

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. I'm fine."

He smiled, and I saw a flicker of something sweet before he covered it up. It was beautiful. "Glad to hear it, you'll have to be punished, of course."

I hung my head. "Yes, sir." My hair hid my face, but I'm sure he could tell I was proud to be back in tune with him.

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