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You want me !
"You want me to slide my hands into those, don't you?", you say, as you begin to move your
hands forward.
"Palms upward", I tell you as I turn your hands over. It is a tight fit but you manage to wriggle
your hands in. You realize I have made them to precisely fit your hands. Now I bring up two
leather thongs from the edge of the desk and tightly secure your wrists so you cannot lift
them nor can you pull them back.
You know what is coming and you are not surprised when I tell you I am now going to give
you a *reason* for not writing. From the first bamboo rod slash on each palm your tears
begin. Very quickly you are crying...then yelping...then screaming, "Stop, I'll write!"
The slashes descend with a monotonous regularity. Your cries are loud, then soft. You beg for
surcease. One particularly painful blow falls and you scream. I continue the vigorous
bastinado for a full five minutes.
You are near to fainting.
I sit back and observe the effect on your hands. Your once white hands are now crisscrossed
with red. Still sobbing, you ask to be released. "Not yet", I tell you and I walk away. A quarter
hour later I return and untie the leather thongs.
"My hands won't come out", you tell me, "They have swollen into the staples".
I look. "Indeed, they have", I agree. "Well, I am going out to take care of some matters. If
the swelling goes down by dinnertime, I would like steak".
PART II: THE SLAVE'S RESPONSE: The Wages of Silence
I have not been able to look at my hands for quite some time --- exactly how long, I am not
sure: the only clock in the room, a sleek, silent electric timepiece, is mounted on the wall
behind me, and I cannot turn around to see it; the row of windows that would have relieved
the gloom are shuttered and closely draped. //Is it dinnertime yet?// I wonder, cautiously
trying my unconventional bonds.
Despite my care, the movement sets off ripples of pain that I know from my previous
attempts will only fade slowly. For a few moments, I sit, staring stupidly at my palms and
fingers, swollen into their already tight bonds, crisscrossed with bright welts as though they
had been pressed against a red-hot grille.
Suddenly, tears that should've been long used during my punishment rolling down my cheeks
to the desktop, I begin jerking violently at the staples pressing into each finger, frustration
and fury at my solitary confinement temporarily anesthetizing me to the pain.
After three yanks, my fourth attempt at escape is aborted by two large hands appearing out
of thin air to grip my wrists. "Shhh," you order me, your lips against my ear. Immediately, I
obey, oddly content now that you are with me.
You feel me relax, and release my wrists, withdrawing for a second; but you have not left the
room, and so I slump in the uncomfortable straight- backed chair and concentrate on enduring
the pain I have inflicted on myself.
I feel your approach, and I open my eyes to see you tuck towel-wrapped ice packs around
each of my swollen hands. You perch one hip on the corner of the desk, and even in the dark
room, I know you are looking at me, not my hands --- I can feel your gaze caressing my face,
following the lace trimming the top of my white silk teddy, circling my breasts, sliding over my
belly, combing through the black curls covering my delta, then dropping lower ---
My body responds to your scrutiny as though responding to your touch: my nipples harden
into stubby little points that stiffen even more as the soft silk abrades them; tiny shivers of
arousal jolt my skin wherever your eyes light; the narrow strip of material between my legs
grows damp when your attention lingers there.
I shift in the chair, and lick my lips. Still staring intently at my crotch,
you command, "Stand up, Veronica."
I brace myself for the misery the remnants of my lessoning are sure to give me the second I
begin such a drastic maneuver, and I am surprised when rising from the chair only makes my
cold hands throb a bit more.
You reach out a long, hard finger to smooth away the remnants
of the fast-drying tear track on my near cheek. "See? the ice is working," you reassure me.
To spare myself, I "stand" bent at the hips, my arms folded double so that my shoulders
hovered some six inches above my pinioned hands, and my taut nipples brush the icepacks'
cool terrycloth towels with each breath. You lift the corners of the icepacks to check my
hands, and nod at what you see. "The swelling will go down soon," you say, half to yourself,
laying the icepacks back down and returning your attention to my body beneath the
semi-transparent garment.
You stand up and walk around behind me slowly, examining me as if I were a horse up for sale
--- running your hands and eyes over me, soon untying the bow straps holding up the top of
my teddy and baring my breasts for weighing and squeezing, kneading my belly, lightly
slapping my buttocks and thighs, sampling the damp silk over my cunt.
I tremble in embarrass- ment.
I am not surprised when I feel one of your hard, warm fingers hook itself under the crotch of
the teddy and pull the snaps apart. You smooth the soft material down my legs and let it fall
to the tops of my white five-inch heels.
A fingertip parts my labia, revealing the moist tissues. You take each lip between thumb and
forefinger and open me. I blush furiously as you hold me open, watching without comment as I
grow wet.
I am annoyed with myself when I find my hips thrusting back helplessly,
my greedy cunt begging for a more emotional, less impersonal touch.
You ignore my unvoiced plea, observing my passion for a minute or two before placing your thumbs side-by-side in my cleft and sliding
them up between my buttocks.
When you press open my asscheeks to expose my anus, I hang my head in mortification, and
grow even more aroused in spite of it. You do not penetrate me, you only look, and my breath
grows short, my labia swell, and the scent of my passion seems to fill the room.
The sound of your zipper cuts through me, and I offer myself up to you without reservation,
pressing my breasts into the cold packs and my cheek to the desktop. You enter me in one
smooth motion, one hand arching over my hip to tantalize my clit, the other drifting up over
my belly and ribcage to capture my nipples between your knuckles, the rough wool of your
suit pants grinding against the tender skin of my asscheeks and inner thighs.
I come on the third stroke, bowing my back and pressing my cheek to the smooth wood. But
you do not stop --- your strokes become shorter, your wool-covered hips driving your cock
into me at various angles, your shaft scraping every wall of my tunnel. The second time, my
orgasm lifts me up on my toes and forces a cry from my lips as your seed gushes into me.
We both collapse in temporary exhaustion, me with my breasts against my numb and frozen
hands, you along my back, your teeth bruising the skin where my neck and shoulder meet.
After a moment or two, you relieve me of your weight and the special sensation of your
softened shaft.
Knowing what you want, I raise my head and turn enough to meet the wet fingers you are
holding out to me. I taste my own juices, and it renews my desire. By the time my tongue has
laved your shaft clean, and half-hard again, I am breathing shallowly and silently urging you
to take me again.
"No," you answer, re-arranging your clothes. You root around in your pockets and move back
behind me. A soft dry cloth --- your handkerchief? --- wrapped around two of your fingers
cleans me *very* thoroughly, and is then withdrawn.
The soft jingling and the long, thick, smooth shape that you push into my cunt is very familiar
to me, and I cannot suppress a sound, half- passion, half-denial.
"I thought you might like some company, Veronica," you tease me as you pull the chair far out
of my reach. "I thought you might like you good friend Catnip to visit you," you continue with
a slight chuckle in your voice, making sure that the remote-controlled vibrator we have
nicknamed "Catnip" is well-seated within me.
You fasten a slender, specially-designed belt about my waist, buckling it in the small of my
back. Catnip's restraints are next, two delicate chains that rest in the groove between labia
and thigh and are attached to the dildo vibrator by a short, glove-soft strip of leather passed
through a hole in the base of the device. "We don't want you to lose Catnip," you remark,
attaching the chains to their well-spaced hooks on the waist belt to insure that Catnip stays
put. Once again, the leather thongs nailed to the edge of the heavy wooden desk are
wrapped around my wrists, and then closely tied to the side loops of the belt, preventing me
from rising.
Catnip begins to vibrate at his lowest, most disturbing frequency, which arouses but does not
sate. I twist my hips and rub my thighs to- gether, anxious to concentrate enough of the
sensation to build to an orgasm. "Oh, no, Veronica, it can't be so simple," you chide. The next
thing I feel are your hands on my ankles, moving them apart. You lash them to the inner front
legs of the desk, more than three feet apart. To keep my balance,
I must press my chilled breasts into the ice packs.
"That's better," you tell me, patting my ass. "Just stay there, let Catnip keep you company
while I'm gone, and wait for the swelling to go down."
You kiss me deeply, invading every crevice of my mouth before walking to the door.
Already I am writhing under Catnip's ministrations. You open the door, and then stop. "Oh, by
the way, I think I'll set six steaks out to thaw."
I contort my neck in an attempt to look behind me. "*Six*?"
Your voice is the epitome of innocence. "Why, yes, didn't I mention it? ...
I feel like a party.
I'm going down to invite the Sterlings and the Houstons over for dinner.
If you like, I'll send the ladies up to say hello when they arrive," you promise gaily, closing the door on my gasped
protests.
********************************************************
When you eventually come back, I am in a frenzy stronger than the one you originally found
me in, trying desperately to relieve my lust.
I don't know how long you watched me from the door; I was too deep in a lust-filled haze to
know much of anything. But I did know when you parted my buttocks, the dollop of lubricant
deposited on my anus hardly having a chance to land before it was driven into me by your
shaft. My inarticulate scream comes not from pain, but from the sheer pleasure of being so
completely filled.
Dimly I realize that you are so deep inside me that the wool of your trousers will leave the
pattern of its weave in my skin. The realization is enough to send me over the edge. The
deliverance of my orgasm is such that I can only shake, paralyzed, a low keening moan that
swells from my throat.
I lie limply on the desk, happy that you are within me, but unable to move, unable to think. I
can still feel, though, and I tremble when you lean over and lick the rim of one ear. "Better
now?"
I make a small, possibly affirmative sound in my throat.
"Good," you rasp. Your big hands grip my hips, and you begin to thrust, long strokes that take
you from total penetration to near separation.
At first, I simply lie there, passive and accepting. But something --- the motion? The
still-humming dildo? Or the need to respond to the master of my body? I do not know ---
rouses me, and arouses me. I begin to meet the steadily increasing force of your shaft, at
first weakly, then, when your hands find their way to my clit, with escalating enthusiasm. This
time, both our voices call out triumphantly when we come.
You recover more quickly than I. Sated and languid, Catnip finally quiet inside me, I watch,
smiling, as you untie my arms. I like you in this considerate mood, and enjoy your tender
ministrations. "Lift up a little," you murmur. "I have to look at your hands."
I am tired, but I am able to obey. When my breasts are removed from the melted icepacks, I
gasp --- they are so cold!
You remove the towel-wrapped icepacks from my hands. The welts do not look as angry as
before. "That's better," you say, slipping your arms around me. You grip my wrists and, with
slow wiggles, pull my still-swollen fingers free of the staples with less pain than I expect.
I straighten in the circle of your arms, grateful to lean against your chest when my legs balk
at bearing my weight. You are still examining my hands. "Do they still hurt?"
Experimentally, I flex them, and wince. "Yes, Sir --- but not as much as my breasts!"
You touch my crinkled nipples. "Brrr!" you agree, warming the nipple between your thumb and
forefinger. "Come on, let's take care of you.
Can you walk?"
Vainly, I try to suppress a grin, for we both know I would rather be carried than walk. In an
obliging mood, you pick me up, all right ---
you turn me around and toss me over your broad shoulder like a sack of flour, my hip against your neck, my head swinging at your waist as you
stride off to the bathroom.
You sit me on the bathroom counter and care for my hands, slathering a cooling cream on
them, and then winding so much gauze around them it looks as though I'm wearing boxing
gloves. I laugh, and make jokes, hoping foolishly to postpone the next step.
Finally, you sit on the vanity chair and order me to you. Shyly, I lie face-down across your lap
while you remove Catnip and the restraining chains, wishing you would not continue. But you
do. Your fingers part my asscheeks once more, and insert the enema syringe. As you fill me
once more, you scold me quietly and thoroughly for letting my correspondence pile up,
gentling your censure with caresses but promising to repeat and prolong the punishment if I
repeat or prolong my rudeness. When I admit in a shamed little whisper that I can hold no
more, you set me on my feet and fill the bathtub with hot water and my favorite scented oil
as I sit blushing on the toilet.
With an air of old-world courtesy that somehow does not seem out of place in this unusual
setting, you help me up and into the steaming tub.
"Wake up, little one," you call for the third time in ten minutes.
I jerk awake. "Forgive me, Sir," I sigh.
You squeeze the loofah sponge, sending a cascade of warm water down the center of my
back. "You've had a long and tiring day."
Your supporting hands bracketing my waist help me stand up.
"If I put you in bed, do you think you can stay awake long enough to eat?"
My stomach reacts to the mention of food, and I realize that I haven't eaten. Knowing my
appetites as you do, you rub my belly playfully.
"I grilled steak," you say lightly, wrapping me in a fluffy, over-sized bath sheet. "Baked potatoes with plenty of sour cream, and green bean
cas- serole."
You throw me over you shoulder and pat my buttock. Head down, I grin. "But nothing sweet?"
I say in a pouting tone.
"I ate all the cookies while I was grilling the steaks," you reply ruefully.
The master bedroom in the country house is huge, but the oversized brass four-poster bed
manages to dominate it. You set me down on the edge of the firm-soft mattress and remove
the bath sheet. "Sit here and let the fire warm you up. Don't go to sleep. I'll be right back."
I *do* doze off again, but the sound of the door opening brings me back. You enter balancing
a large serving tray on one forearm. I lean against you and eat steak and drink fine red wine
from your hand, since I cannot handle silverware or wineglasses with my bandaged hands.
I laugh out loud when you explain why the Sterlings and Houstons declined your invita- tions,
and whimper low in my throat when you tug at my nipple and ask if I'm still cold.
Your hand claims my breast, and I nuzzle your nipple in turn, sleepy but willing. After a few
moments, though, you stop kneading me. "Not tonight," you announce staunchly, to yourself
as well as me. You release my teat to turn off the lamp over our heads.
When you pull me down beside you in the shadowed, flickering light of the dying fire, I can
finally relax. Always, when I annoy you, I wonder if you'll ever *stay* angry, even after the
punishment is complete --- I wonder until you fit your naked body with mine, pulling my head
onto your chest atop your heart, pushing your knee high between my thighs, capturing my
breast in your hand and rubbing the nipple back and forth absently.
When you do, I breathe once, deeply, filling my nose with your distinctive scent, snuggle into your warmth, and fall
asleep, the smile of the well- mastered submissive at home on my lips.
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