A/N: This is not the smuttiest thing I've ever written, but definitely the kinkiest. If you are completely against reading any BDSM erotica (I mean the good stuff, not Fifty Shades of Crap) then you might wish to give this one a pass.
Credit where credit is due at the end of the story.
Also, speaking of credit, my many, many thanks to SleepySenshi for her permission to use her awesome Chasefield pic as the cover art for this story! Be sure to look her up on Tumblr! (sleepysenshi . tumblr . com). Her stuff is absolutely amazing!
We've been at it for hours, she and I. This alabaster angel, this precocious self-effacing artiste. Hours since she accepted my invitation, stepped across the threshold, into the private little dungeon I'd set up for the purpose, in one of the disused storage areas down in the sub basement under the dorm.
She slumps forward as I lower the ropes suspending her, until she's held in a diagonal position; sandy hair clumped against her preparation-slickened forehead, gorgeous little nipples still hard as pebbles. Her back striped in lovely, vicious, angry lines. A roadmap of traceries where the doe hide flogger clutched in my hand splashed out against the canvas of her tender shoulders and rear. Curious, it seems like the skin has been marked up far more than my efforts alone should have produced. Does she have some sort of condition? Or perhaps I simply lost track of the time?
I force myself to slow down and savor the fullness of this moment by walking over and placing the flogger down on a nearby shelf. The polished oak handle catches the guttering light of the candles surrounding us, almost all of which are burned down to the ends. Purple strands of hide straightened and neatened, order given unto it, boundaries defined. Just as I center myself, refocus and gather up the emotions running riot through my mind.
My reformed shell barely holds together when I return to her side. It threatens to fracture further when I remove the blindfold and witness the glazed look in her eyes. They joy, the divine release reflected in them. The labored, desperate breaths ebbing and flowing through her flared nostrils. The heavy flush of red in her cheeks...
...the gossamer thin line of drool, running down across the ball gag, and trailing delicately off her chin.
It takes considerable effort on my part to keep from running back to the shelf, grabbing my implements, and diving back in. Not that she would mind; the look on her face tells me all I need to know. She's so far in, she'd let me take her to the breaking point. And God help me, I'd love every minute of it.
No. This is part of my duty. My responsibility. If I can't control myself, then I certainly have no right controlling her.
I reach up, rubbing my temples, turning away from her, and walking out of her line of sight as I do. The fire in my heart, thrumming in time with the one between my legs, wells itself up into a tight, compact little ball. Unforgotten, but put into its place, where it's easier to ignore for the time being.
Good lord. If I had any notion of how well tonight was going to go.
But I do get ahead of myself...
When I was younger, oh, let's say about fourteen years or so, I was as curious as any other hormonal teenager about the subject of sex. You'd think a child born at the dawn of the Internet age should have no trouble looking whatever they wanted up on the Net, but Daddy, ever the control freak, had our network connections filtered. Even managed to lock down what my phone could access, at least for a while.
I don't resent him for it; indeed, I have ALWAYS been my father's daughter.
And because of course nothing he did quenched my curiosity. Denied one method of access, I instead decided to poke around the computer in his office, late at night, which was - naturally - the only one in the house not blocked out; guessing the password wasn't terribly difficult. It didn't take much time searching the Internet to discover that I had no tolerance for the mass produced sleaze that floods the market in this day and age. Instead, I found myself gravitating more towards the old classics: Fanny Hill and Venus in Furs, Justine - although I could just as easily leave some of de Sade's more obscene work - and of course The Story of O.
It wasn't until I came across a movie called Secretary that I had my true awakening. At first, I wasn't sure what it made me feel, who I was supposed to identify with: did I envy Maggie Gyllenhaal, or James Spader? And what was it that I craved from observing each of them? By the end of the movie, I made my choice. And let me just say that James Spader will always be the one true Mr. Grey to me. Not that pretender in the cheap fanfiction of domestic abuse porn aspiring to pretentions it has no right to hold.
I suppose it makes sense, in that I needed something closer to my cultural sensibilities to truly process and understand my budding desires. What made me tick deep down inside. It's about more than just base control of course, although that IS a large component of it. Few of my peers understand exactly the sort of level of control I exert, in order to hold onto my place at Blackwell. The time I take to study everyone around me, especially the ones that I most need to interact with; consuming what they reveal of themselves on social media, their body language, the tone and tenor of their voice. What they wear, how they react to every little thing. And I plan ahead, as far as my brain will stand it. Plans, counterplans, contingencies, sub-contingencies. If A does B then go with X. If counted with Y, then Z. If situation allows for it, follow up with M, then proceed to Q, unless N, in which case execute O. Take the product of the previous algorithm, and loop back in to acquire new results. Reiterate, recurse, repeat
Most people would find the effort exhausting. I've always found it exhilarating. What it must feel like to be Bobby Fischer in Reykjavik, except the chessboard is life, and my daily opponents take on so many names and faces.
When I was sixteen, I was finally able to work my way around the net filters on my bedroom computer, and began pursuing my darker interests in relative safety. Chat rooms, discussion groups. Erotic fanfiction sites. MUSHes. Places I could try on roles. Places I could meet, discuss, with any number of like minded individuals, behind a safe veneer of anonymity and assumed identities.
That's where I met Marnie.
She was a sociology student at the local university, three years older than me. She...made me look like a pretender. Her calm, her grace. Her style and self-discipline. So much of her that I admired and envied. I didn't feel threatened or jealous, so much as I aspired to be cast in her mold. And she found a kindred soul in me as well. A protege, so to speak. Someone who could keep up with, understand and discuss her various theories on power exchange and the masks that modern society demands that we all wear. What could be achieved if we allowed ourselves to take those masks off, and know one another for what we actually are.
She took me under her wing, and for two years she showed me what I needed to know.
She taught me dominance in the best and purest fashion: by making me understand what it was to submit. To feel another's dominion over me. To accept and graciously conceed to a superior, and to understand the heavy burden of responsibility that a Domme takes on when she accepts a submissive. To understand the equation from both sides. All the while, Marnie never made the mistake of thinking that anything other than dominance and control were my ultimate goals.
There was little sex that occurred between us. Sensuality of course, but almost no sex. Still, there was love and respect of a kind, and I missed her terribly when she graduated. But we both knew that it was time to move on.
Regardless, freshly minted and instructed as I was, I wasn't looking for a submissive in my final year of high school. College at a minimum. Or, I imagined, taking a year off to Europe after graduation. Finding an appropriate someone to wrap around my little finger. No, senior year was simply something to be endured, something to provide me with as much amusement as possible before I moved onto the bigger and better. I felt like a lioness surrounded by petty jackals, a hawk looking down from her aerie, and shaking her head at all the little groundlings who would never be able to see the world as she did from on high.
There was Mr. Jefferson of course; oh yes, how he fascinated me. Charmed me. I was curious to see what sort of test case he'd turn out to be, what sort of challenge he might provide. Would he be a pawn or a knight? Hopefully he'd be a tougher nut to crack than Principal Wells had been.
I supposed there was also...ugh...Nathan Prescott. The man-child who fancies himself the Gary Kasparov to my Zuszsa Polgar. He was a king all right: incredibly weak in actual power, but oh so useful as a prized resource, unless you pushed him into the endgame. I let him think us friends of course, but the truth was that he utterly disgusted me. A slave to his addictions, unable to control his own weak, piteous mind.
Everything was neat and tidy as I wanted it to be by the second week. The Vortex Club was churning like a well oiled machine. People played their parts and danced to the tune that I set. Not that I could relax around any of them, nor dare let my guard down. Just because all the others spun in orbit around me, that didn't mean there wasn't some little fool who thought to chase the sun out of the sky and take her place.
Things changed though. In unexpected and delightful ways because of one transfer student.
Maxine Caulfield.
I wrote her off from the start; told myself there was something about her I could not stand. That she was a phony. A twee slip of a little girl who thought the artifice of her retro-technique combined with her love of selfies gave her some sort of actual depth and character. Made her interesting. Unique. Special.
I was quite vicious to her, right out of the starting gate. I never stopped to think that this wasn't exactly me. People like Max usually didn't rate much more than a derisive dismissal at best.
It wasn't until much later that I finally figured it out; I'd fallen prey to that most ancient of courtship rituals. I was the playground bully tossing rocks at the new girl, the one she was secretly fascinated with. Glamored by.
Maybe that was why I felt the need to keep pushing her buttons. To see how much she could take, and still come back to me, still try to endure. I supposed she would have eventually given up. She was already starting to give me as wide a berth as circumstances allowed. I might have missed out on something extraordinary had it not been for the paint can incident.
Yes. That. I still have no idea how it happened, what weird little twist of fate interveined. God, I was so furious! How I loathed random elements that came in and ruined the contained order of my day. And Taylor was, of course, worse than useless. Oh...damnit. I suppose I was overly hard on her. God knows she's going through some tough times.
But then she came back. Max. Looked upon me in my weak hour, a rare moment of vulnerability, when I had given her every reason to strike back, in some palpable but ultimately fleeting fashion.
Instead, she made peace. Even complemented me on the cutting remark I made to her.
Who does that? Seriously, who says that sort of thing?
The lilt in her voice. The cadence. The way she carried herself. It was the body language. I should have spotted it from the start, weeks ago. Marnie would probably have tanned my hide - literally, and rightfully so, for being so wrapped up in my own affairs that I missed the messages she was sending out.
I recognize what you are. What you want. Here I am. Think you can claim me?
Something...softened inside my heart. I moved a pawn forward on the board, deleted the picture of her that I uploaded onto the Net. Thanked her for her...kindness.
And I recognize what you are as well. And what you want. I most certainly will rise to the occasion.
I let her go about her way, run whatever errand she was on. I bided my time. You understand of course, it wouldn't do to chase her down from the start. But I did linger a bit, on the outside steps. Waited until she came back out, half an hour later. As she tried to pass me, I reached out, gently seizing her arm.
"Hey. Max. So I was thinking: as much as I am loathe to say this, and will deny it if you bring it up to anyone else, but maybe we got off on the wrong foot? Let's hang out and grab dinner tonight. Say around six pm. My treat."
I crafted every intonation and word as carefully as possible. Phrased the question so that it wasn't so much a request as it was a polite demand. She would of course be in my company tonight, if I saw what I thought I did. If she actually understood what she wanted, what would be best for her.
She stares at a USB drive in her hand, for some reason, then back to me. I give a raised quirk of my brow, awaiting her answer.
"I...well...I was supposed to um...meet up with Warren. He's waiting for his USB drive buuut." She smiled, closing her fingers around the drive, and then putting it away in her pocket. "I'm sure he can wait another day, right? So I mean, yeah. I'd really like that.."
"Sure. Why don't you hang around, give me oooh...forty-five minutes?."
She nodded, and I took note of the smile pushing it's way past her lips as she headed back into the dorms.
Perfect. Just enough time for me to change. I ruminate over what was possibly falling into place. Already, I had put her into a position where she was forced to choose: take my hand, or walk away towards another.
And she chose me. Clever girl.
Warren...hmmm..was she talking about that Graham geek?
"Oh sweetness. I just did you the biggest favor." I murmured to myself. "Who knows how your life would have turned out if you had gone on your merry way."
There is an inherent flaw in taking the time to honestly get to know people; you sometimes find yourselves actually liking them. It's insidious, and so was Max. She was upbeat, but not cloy. Eager to please, but not toadying. She had her own opinions, likes, interests, but clearly wanted to know more about what others enjoyed. Open to new experiences. God, I really should despise her but there was a certain je ne se quois...
She was a cipher. Not so much wishy washy, but willing to be molded. She had her own identity, but it was a nascent thing, open to redirection, to be sculpted to something far more to the liking of the individual who could recognize the opportunity. Seize upon it. Max had a surprising amount of will, and many people make the mistake of assuming submissives are weak-willed people as a general rule. Those people are idiots and in most cases, they couldn't be further from the truth.
There's a reason why the phrase "topping from the bottom" exists.
We ate at a local restaurant in town, nice but not too overwhelming. We talked photography. She showed me some of what she was working on. Not nearly as good as mine, of course but...I know when to give credit. She had a knack. A raw talent. An instinct. All she needed was appropriate instruction. I could see, or rather, I was WILLING to finally see what Mark Jefferson did. Why he was had clearly made her the teacher's pet.
I was still sure to win the contest of course, but that's alright; I suspect I'd make it up to her in ways she'd find oh-so-satisfactory.
Our get together that night was a casual thing. Light. An opening gambit, a testing of the waters. And ohhh, was I ever so pleased with the results.
I was actually going to invite her to the big Vortex Club party on Friday, see how she faired by my side with the rest of the sharks in the tank, but wouldn't you know it? Somehow, she managed to talk her way onto the guest list.
My my my. Maxine Caulfield. I've underestimated you. Deliciously so.
My first instinct was to take it as a direct provocation. That was until I saw the look in her eyes, the shy, quiet brilliance in her smile, I recognized it for what it actually was:
She wanted to impress me. Wanted to prove her worthiness.
I should have seen it, the trap I was destined to fall into. A power greater than my own. Blame it on my neophyte lack of real world experience. Still: no regrets. None whatsoever.
We danced at one point. Not so immediately eye raising. Girls dance with girls, that's the way it is. Of course, Max was the ONLY one I shared a slow dance with. I made sure to keep it chaste - mostly - in appearance. At least, from a distance. But there was a subtle probing. A hand left just a little too long on the thigh. A gentle squeeze here or there. It wasn't so much sexual as questing. Silently asking.
Are you actually what I think you are?
There was a frisson between us, a slight shiver in her skin, a catch in the breath, that told me everything I needed to know.
After that night, we had more get togethers. Girls nights. Movie watching. Study sessions. Dinner. Lunch. I suppose somewhere along the line, we had a date. Something that occurred as a simple, obvious, evolutionary progression of our relationship. All the while, she began to fall more and more into my orbit. She made an interesting addition to the Vortex Club, my little Maxine. Kitten had claws, but she was more than willing to talk it out, get people on her side. There were times I saw her at work and it was...incredible. Almost supernatural. The way she tuned into people, and what they wanted to hear. The things she seemed to know about them. Personal, intimate details. Winning them over.
It was sexy as hell to watch. Part of me wondered if I was looking at the greatest threat to my domain, if she wasn't playing the long con with me. My instincts for rulership told me she was becoming too great a threat. That I needed to squash her, put her down. Make an example of her.
And yet...Oh God...and yet...
She made herself invaluable to me. She always had my back, whenever things turned catty with the others. Her loyalty became unquestioned. Whatever power she had...when she used it on me, it only seemed to be in the service of making me genuinely happy.
Like when she somehow figured out my favorite brand of import soda, and brought me a case. Waiting until I was having a particularly shitty day before she surprised me with it.
The times she listened to me as I vented, ranted and raved.
The nights she'd comfort me with a neck or temple rub, her slim, delicate fingers quickly knowing exactly which knots to rub, never once making a mistake. Almost as if I had already given her all the instruction she needed, and then promptly forgot ever doing so.
One night, a neck rub became a foot rub. There I was, sitting in my chair, slumped back after a particularly grueling final exam. And there she was, on the floor, with her legs curled up underneath her. She wasn't on her knees, but she didn't have to be. There was a purity in her submission. No formal ritual, merely something freely offered. Attending to the needs of her superior. Supporting. Helping. Allowing me to be at my best.
Dear lord, the intimacy of that moment, the way she looked up at me with that adoring gaze. So completely disarming. Carefree. She made me feel like an Empress.
Max Caulfield had become exquisitely precious to me.
She haunts my dreams at night now. Taunts me with promises of her unspoiled devotion. She infects my blood with the poison of her sweetness, her innocence. Her desire to please and serve.
I needed her. I needed to have her under my complete and total aegis. I wanted more. I wanted her all. I had to find out how much she was willing to give.
A couple days later, I had a plan. A test. It was a calculated risk, married to a small leap of faith. It would leave me potentially exposed, but not in any way I couldn't ultimately mitigate. Either she would pass what should be, if she was the one I desperately wanted her to be, an easy, obvious test, or she wouldn't. If the latter occurred, I would cut her loose. Gently of course, during the winter break. Hold her at arm's length. She had earned that much from me, that token of respect.
Please...PLEASE...don't let me be wrong.
I gave her a USB drive, and a note.
"Watch this now. If you understand my meaning, then come to my room. There is a box underneath my bed with further instructions."
There was a digital copy of Secretary on it.
With the wheels set in motion, I retreated to the sub-basement, to the storage room I had claimed as mine, where no one would bother us, especially as students made preparations to head home for the holiday.
Assuming my gambit paid off, and Max joined me at my side.
At 9:00pm, there was a knock on the door. Three, then one, then two. I knew exactly who would be on the other side. As I unlocked, and then opened it up, I stood before her, attired in a Chanel bandage dress, cut from black leather, paired with matching opera length gloves. Dark seamed stockings, and sensibly heeled ankle boots. I had been letting my hair grow out, just to the point where it came down a quarter-inch above my shoulders, and tonight it was severely plastered back across my head. A touch of dark red on the lips, just the right amount of eyeliner and shading. I could have easily been going to the opera or a high-scale nightclub as I was adopting the role. I didn't do cheap, or tawdry. I'd spent weeks putting together my outfit for this night.
Max stood at the door, looking delightfully nervous and unsure, but the look of desire in her eyes as she took in the sight of me was unmistakable. She had made it this far, Had come to my lair, just as instructed. I canted my head to the side, stepped back. Held out my arm and invited-slash-demanded her to come inside the rest of the way.
The room would have fallen into complete blackness once I closed and locked the door behind me, had it not been for the multitude of candles. It had taken me thirty minutes just to make that preparation alone. Across the dimness of the small chamber, they seemed to float , as if straining to give definition and boundary to the void. I stepped over, glanced down at Max, and gave the merest smirk of expectation to her.
She moved with a languid, liquid slowness, reaching up to part the long black silk robe she wore, sliding it off her shoulders, letting it slip down off her arms, until it pooled into a silken puddle at her feet. Underneath, she wore nothing at all.
Nothing save the leather cuffs and collar I had left for her, in the box under my bed.
"Do you understand? Do you want this? Put these on. There's a black robe on top of my bed. Wear nothing else. Come down to the sub-basement, storage room D. Knock three times, then once, then twice. Make sure that this is what you really want; once you step into my parlor, there's no backing out."
That last part was not *exactly* true. If I had somehow miscalculated, if she had a sudden attack of cold feet, I'd let her go, of course. But whatever bond existed between us would be gone. Not that it mattered, because that meant that what I thought was there was an illusion. That, or, I was willing to concede, a flaw in my ability to properly cultivate her submissive tendencies up to this point.
"Good girl." I mused, reaching up, starting to stroke her cheek and ear with one gloved palm. She half-lidded her eyes and started to nuzzle back; I don't even think she was consciously aware she was doing it.
"So. Here we are. Tell me the words I want to hear. Make me believe."
Her lips parted an inch or so, as she got a far away look in her eyes. Then let out a long, slow breath, and whispered. "This. I want this."
And just what do you think 'this', is, Maxine?"
That was a thing, between us. In public, especially with the rest of the Vortex Club, it was Max. She seemed to hate her full name. It was an utter delight to watch her politely chew anyone else out who used it. I certainly knew better.
But when it was just the two of us alone. Private. When we let our guard down. Took off the masks...
She was mine. My Maxine. Victoria and Maxine, the way it was meant to be. How fitting that a name that meant "the highest" could apply to her. It's like God was an ironic comedian sometimes.
"I want this." she repeated. "Whatever's going on between us. This feeling. I...need to be special to you. I want to show you how far I'll go...what I'll do. As long as it makes you happy. That's all I want, in the end." She swallowed, and then cast her eyes downward.
"Your happiness."
I don't think you can understand how that moment felt. The blazing, addictive rush, welling up in my chest, roaring, hot and clean through my limbs, making my head swim. The surreality of it. The perfection. The treasured gift of her submission.
My time with Marnie had been useful. Enjoyable even. But it had been clinical and instructional as well, nothing more. We cared for each other, but there was none of this. Not a trace. Oh, she told me about it. How it felt. To find The One. She who would read me like a book. Fall into such utter sympatico with me.
Blood roared in my ears, desire ached in my pussy. I gave a short peal of drunken laughter, despite myself. Now the game was to stay in as much control over myself. Directing her was the easy part.
I had to draw this out, resist the urge to consume her in one hungry gulp. It's what she expected. What she deserved. Even demanded.
I tilted her chin back up with one finger, then leaned in. Her lips met mine, soft and yielding. I held her there, but took it no further, no deeper. She was a jewel, and I intended to spend my time studying and glorying in each and every one of her different facets.
We parted, and it was a small miracle that I did not shiver as visibly as she did. Oh the inside though...oh my God, on the inside.
"There are rules of course, my Maxine. Because what's life without rules, other than chaos and anarchy?. This is my domain. Inside you are safe. Here, you are under my protection. Do you understand?"
She nods, barely, and whispers out, "Yes."
"Domina."
I prefer Domina. It's...classy. It's Latin. It bespeaks of the old Roman nobility. Mistress, in my mind, has too much of a schlocky, stomach turning quality to it. I can't hear someone say that, without feeling like they're whining it out.
She doesn't even flinch. Nor question. Simply assimilates my command, as if reading my mind, and amends, "Yes, Domina."
Who the hell are you, Maxine Caulfield? How are you so perfect? How do you never make a mistake? Have you always had the ability to answer every question of mine correctly the first time? How are you...Galatea to my Pygmalion? Willing clay to be sculpted, shaped and guided. Until you are as exactly as I wish you to be. Were you sent to be my destruction, or my salvation?
It's all I can do not to weep from the beauty of it.
"I allow you this one power. A word. 'Sapphire.' If I'm pushing you dangerously past your limits, or you find you can't go on, say it. Say it, and it stops, at least for tonight. But do not think yourself clever or strong or impressive if you refuse to use it at all. If I think you're putting yourself in actual danger, refusing to take care of yourself, completely unwilling to stay my hand when you damn well know you should...*I* will stop it, and I WILL be extremely displeased with you. Do you understand me?"
Another nod. Another soft, whispery reply, which makes me achingly wet. "Yes, Domina."
Of course, it's my responsibility as much as hers to know when the scene is getting out of hand. To stop it if I think she's been pushed into such a "sub-space" mindset that she's unable to safeword. It's been known to happen. Given that I've little practical experience, I'm going to have to be especially careful with her. I could never forgive myself if I hurt her.
Actually, irredeemably hurt her.
I need this to be as good for her as it has been for me already. If I failed her now, I couldn't live with myself.
But still, she needs to know how deadly seriously this is. Not a game. A lifestyle. A path she and I have chosen together.
"And if I gag that adorable little mouth of yours...well...you're familiar with La Donna E Mobile? From Rigoletto? Hum that, and I'll know."
I'm...really expecting her not to know what I'm talking about. She doesn't strike me as much the opera lover. Still, she nods her ascent.
"Then do it. Show me."
Which she does. Her tempo is atrocious, but it's quite obvious she's familiar with the tune. Because...because of course she is. Part of me can't help but wonder, for the upteenth time, about this strange power of hers. Able to adapt instantly and intuitively. In my minds eyes, I see her as the walking embodiment of my will and darkest desire. A warm, enveloping mist that yields to me, even as she clings to my form.
"Verrrry good. All right then, precious. We have a long night ahead of us."
I grab a nearby remote and push the play button. Music from my carefully choreographed playlist starts to fill the room, from a small array of wireless speakers I've tucked out of sight.
When I scene, I make it a multimedia experience; granted, I find the word 'multimedia' itself pretentious and dated as hell, but I haven't figured out a better way to describe it. Multilayered, perhaps? With regards to the music, I've had a lot of time to think about it, but not so much practical experience playing it out, short of experimenting with one or two of Marnie's personal submissives. Suffice it to say, I'm a fan of dark atmospherics, which, I supposed should be blatantly obvious. Still, it's hard to argue with what works. I tend to open with some of the classics: Bauhaus, or especially Switchblade Symphony. It just so happens that "Clown" is what playing to start the night.
For the opening warmups and prep, I'll mix it up with a little Dead Can Dance, especially the stuff that was popular around the time I was born. Then a few sprinkles of Cruxshadows, and the one or two songs of Chiasm's that I've actually liked. When I get really into a more, shall we say, physical and violent groove, I'll open with some Mindless Self-Indulgence, because how can I resist a band with a name like that? Also, the tempo is absolutely perfect for when we get to the flogging.
Ayria and The Birthday Massacre especially make up the bulk of the rest of my audio component; I'd be loathe to admit my musical preferences the Vortex Club puppets but...part of me takes delight that this is one more little secret that Max and I can share together.
With the scene now musically set, I hook a finger through the O-ring of her collar, and guide her along to the middle of the room. I move her arms behind her back, and she allows me to loop the ropes through the matching rings on her cuffs.
I grab more from the end table next to me - and I'm rather particular about my ropes: traditional three strand jute in this case, and begin to wrap them around her body. Framing it. Outlying her form. Her body, the one that most would look at and declare to be "merely pretty, at best." It's true that my Maxine may not have a supermodel's appearance. She's elfin, slight of breast. But she is real, and she is pure. In my eyes, she is nothing short of spellbinding.
When I found the book on kibaku - what the West calls shibari - in Daddy's study, I have to admit that I was entranced: an ancient art devoted solely to the practice of binding one's partner. The sensual and sexual experience of it, the artistry. It speaks to me, in a highly personal way. The Japanese may seem cold, even perverse on the surface, but understand: they are passionate souls. They bring an artist's eye to almost every aspect of their lives. They look at the mundane, the things that we might dismiss, or attempt to make gaudy, cheap, or groanworthy, and instead infuse it with a...
...I'm not certain exactly how to describe it. But I would call it authenticity. Verisimilitude. If this were American porn, I'd simply tie her down and violate her. But no, not this. In kibaku, I am making art. The weft of the rope as it lifts and separates her breasts. The crisscrossing threads placed against her clit, softly, insistently rubbing up against her. The knots as they form a counterpoint to the webwork of strands dominating her body. Wrapping and weaving around her arms, and across her upper thighs. It all makes her stand out, blazing. She was nude before, but now...now she's truly naked.
It's almost an hour before it's complete. And Max, my darling, my delight, has not whimpered once - well, not in a bad way. Not complained, not whined. She has stood, and endured.
I lean in and whisper. "How does that feel, Maxine?"
"Good, Domina."
I lean in, and smirk against her ear. "Good? JUST good? You KNOW you can do better than that."
She blushes, but smiles all the while. "I feel safe. Controlled. Protected. I feel...loved. Like I'm wearing your love around my body. And I want to keep it on. Maybe..." I can see the pulse throbbing in her neck, as she tries to get the words out. "Maybe sometime, you can put one of these rope harnesses on me. Something that would fit under my clothes. I could just go to class this way. Looking completely normal on the outside, but unable to do anything but think about you, the whole time."
I almost fall to my knees when she makes that confession.
Fuck. Maxine, fuck! I am...I...how am I supposed to not take you, right here and now, when you keep saying things like this!
I keep my composure by and large, though I do wetly run the tip of my tongue possessively across her neck, ear, and shoulder. I remove my gloves, allowing my hands to drink her in, slither them up and down, across her body. Close my eyes and focus on the contrasts between the rope, and her flesh. Toying with her nipples, milking them between my fingers, smiling beatifically as it elicits a needy moan from her. Follow the diamond patterns down to between her legs, where she's soaking through the ropes. Press the knot against her clit, just a bit, and feel her knees start to buckle.
She has to know what this is doing to me. I can feel the flush in my face, and down my chest. But I can see no deception in her shimmering eyes. I expect her to press her advantage, to strike at me somehow, here at my most ironically vulnerable.
"You know we've crossed the point of no return here, Maxine? That there is no going back for us, anymore."
"I belong to you, Domina".
And I belong to y...NO! Damnit.
"And I graciously accept this gift of yourself. Noooow..." I step back and walk over to the shelf, removing one of my favorite toys: the custom made flogger. I've been absolutely dying for a chance to break it in properly. I lazily circle back into her field of vision and glide my gaze to it, as I carelessly flick it over my shoulder.
I'm about to open my mouth to speak, but she bites down hard on her bottom lip. Looks me straight in the eye and nods, as she strains to control her breathing. I don't even question this anymore: I merely accept that somehow, my precious submissive melts into me, fills in the every small crack and ridge. Anticipates my needs and gives voice to acceptance of them, before I can even say the words.
I shift around, to just behind her. Encircle the blindfold around her eyes, just as I wrap my arms around her, and nuzzle against her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and hair. I place the ball gag into her mouth, then take a minute to shift her bound arms up and over, tying them to one of the beams directly above us, before kissing and lapping at her back. Nibbling and playing with the ropes, biting the small of her back. I force myself away, afraid that if I don't keep the proper pace now, I will lose myself to her completely.
I stand and still my shaking hands. Close my eyes and disconnect myself as best as I can from the worst of my carnal desire - she's not the only one who's soaked at the moment. I open my eyes and narrow them. I will calming control outward to my extremities, lift the flogger in my hand...and prepare to leave the marks of my artistry upon her body.
Flogging, proper flogging, is much a learned skill as anything else in this world. You don't just start to go whole hog, don't begin by tearing into someone from the word go. I want to make Maxine delirious with sensation. I have to build her up to a boil. Without a knowing, practiced hand, at best I make her pain...unpleasant. At worst, I end up having to take her to the emergency room with an incredibly embarrassing story about how one or both of her kidneys managed to get so dangerously bruised.
I start slow. Alternating between her cheeks, smiling to myself at the way they jiggle. Moving up to the 'safe zone' across and between her shoulders. The layman observer wouldn't appreciate the effort I'm putting into this. The care and consideration as I lay down each strike. The placement. The effect I want to achieve. Layering pattern and design. Chosing the moments to strike based on my mood, on hers, and the ebb and flow of music as it fills the room.
Max, MY Maxine! My muse, my rapture...her soul understands and glories in what we create together, as much as I do, in an altogether unique way.
The redness forms across her skin. Sharp punctuations of hard strikes mesh with softer blows. The effect it has on her is nothing short of breathtaking. She's trying so hard to contain her moans. To playfully challenge me, to make me work for it...
I adore you...
Until she can't stand it any further. Her vocalizations are music to my ears. As she has such an amazing range. I play her like a drum, learning how she responds. What sort of strikes produce which kind of result. As I increase the intensity, coos dissolve into insistent, desperate begging.
Redness gives way to brusing. Bruising gives way...
I finally break the skin, but just barely. Superficially. I call this my stopping point, and by now, Maxine is slumping against her restraints, panting through her nose like a bitch in heat. I give her a couple more open-palmed slaps on her bottom, then trace my fingers across the scratch on her back, coming up with a few droplets of blood on the tips.
I don't know why...I mean, I really shouldn't...the sanitary and health issues alone...but I'm unable to stop myself from sticking my fingers in my mouth.
Sharp and coppery. I've never tasted someone else's blood before, and I'm surprised at the differences between hers and mine. Maybe I'm just imagining it. But...but it's something I think I'd like to repeat. Some other day...
This, of course, brings us back to the beginning of our little tale.
Tears fill my eyes, as I cup her face.
"Look at you, Maxine. Look at you. Your beauty. Your fragility. Your strength. I...oh God. Why the fuck didn't I have you bring your stupid camera!"
Now now...time enough for that. Some day. Some other day. There will be oh-so-many in the future.
She is enraptured. Floating on a blissful cloud of endorphin rush overload. The gag comes off, and she starts to laugh, in a way that's completely beyond her control. I've been there. I understand precisely what she's experiencing.
At most, Marnie cuddled me. Talked with me afterwards. Stroked my hair, kissed my brow. But there was no more than that.
Oh but Max. Sweet, darling, Maxine.
Was it her idea or mine? You know, honestly, I don't quite remember. Except that I ended up sitting down in the ratty, surplus barcalounger tucked away in the corner, with Max kneeling at my feet, arms still bound behind her back, as she cleans my boot with her tongue. As if her life depending upon it. As if she could somehow pour the entirety of her being into this task. The way she swabs it over the leather; traces the tip over the metal Chanel logo on the sides; wraps it up and down the sides of the heel.
She does not, however, actually lick the soles, and for that I am deeply grateful. I know some dominants who get off on that, and some submissives as well. I am NOT one of them. Aside from the hygiene issues, it just always struck me as...declasse. There is a difference between surrendering to dreams of sweat and blood and devotion, and debasing ourselves to the level of barnyard animals. I'm not trying to dehumanize my dearest heart; simply set her free through my art. Make her part of it. And that is how she looks, right at this moment.
Free. True. Unadulterated.
I watch her work, with deep fascination and entrancement. I think I actually come, near the end. It's a release unlike any sort of orgasm I've ever had before. But I lean in, seizing her head in my hands, and I kiss her. Hard. Unceasing, unrelenting. My tongue parts her lips, and dances against her own. She joins in, wrestling, playing, but still...even now, she still knows her place.
I cut her ropes with the tactical knife I've brought for the purpose. I hold her against me, making her sit in my lap on the chair. We trade soft, sweet kisses. I play with her hair. I tell her how proud and amazed I am by her. How blessed and fortunate I feel having her by my side, and in my life.
A timer goes off, breaking the spell with sharp, shrill beeps. An hour before false dawn starts to crack above the horizon. It's late, and if we have any chance of sneaking back upstairs undetected, we need to part right now.
She begs me to let her keep the harness on, just a little bit longer. And I...
...how can I deny her?
But I make her go to my room. I tell her I'll join her shortly. She wraps herself up in the room, kisses my cheek, and murmurs one last, "Yes, Domina." before she runs off.
I close the door behind her. Lock it. I just...I just need...for a minute...maybe two?
I sink down to my knees - not easy to do in this dress - cheek planted against the door, fingertips clawing against the cold, hard metal surface.
Oh God. Help me...
...I need her. She's thirty seconds gone, and I'm already craving her. Mercilessly. I feel the pull tugging in the square center of my chest. Demanding that I follow her. Straight into bed, where she'll spoon me. Sleep with me. Complete, content, and adoring. Both sharing the same dream.
I sob, overcome with a brief bout of hysterics, before I calm again. The worst of it purged out of my system, leaving a stillness in it's wake.
But the craving is still there. The twisting need. And it's only going to get worse.
"We'll go out tomorrow. Get your hair done. And in a few days...we'll..." I lick my dry lips, continuing to speak to the thin air, pretending it's her.
"We'll buy you a new wardrobe. Something properly befitting you. That hoodie is cute but...but you...I need you to..."
I realize I could reinvent her to my precise liking. Maxine would revel in it, all the while. I wonder if I could get her to convince her parents to let her stay with me for the holiday break. Why not? She's an adult now. They couldn't...MAKE her come home...
Hell, if I have to be the one to talk to them, then I will. Make them see reason. MY reason. It would be an effortless thing to charm them. As I've done to so many others.
Say it. Say the words. Make it real. Admit it to yourself, at the very least.
I rise up to my feet, growing steadier, feeling perversely, increasingly in control moment by moment.
"I love you, Maxine Caulfield."
I quickly clean up the evidence. Pack my tools in my toybag, blow out what few candles still burn. Then pause at the door, taking one last deep, shuddering breath, before I unlock it, and let myself out of the cage.
So tell me now, life. Who is actually the Domina here? And who is the slave?
A/N: So first, I MUST give props to Szept, who writes some interesting, challenging stuff here on FFN. This entire story arose from inspiration that struck me while reading The First Date, and to a lesser extent, it's sequel A Bloody Affair. There was something in his portrayal of Victoria, that need to control, the mental effort she puts into keeping her universe neat and tidy. I actually wrote the first draft of this in three hours after reading TFD. Frankly, before reading those stories, I had no interest in Vicxine shipping...now...it's my second favorite. So yes, I tip my hat respectfully to them.
Second, much love to editor and compatriot Corentin IV; this is the first LIS piece she's edited for me...I really wanted to make sure this one got the proper spit and polish before I went to publish. About a year and a half ago, she wrote this amazing BDSM-erotic piece called Still Game, that you absolutely have to check out. I remember reading it and thinking "God. Someday, if I could write something even close to this, I'd be rather pleased with myself." I didn't manage to reach exactly those lofty heights, but I'm happy with the end result.
7-29-17: Originally, a Tumblr user named MintGal kindly gave me permission to utilize one of her original works as the cover for this story, and for over two years it performed the job admirably. I liked her art so much I commissioned her to draw the cover image for Black Swan. However, my good friend LonesomeBard recently created fan art based on this story that I thought was so appropriate, it needed to get the honor. It just took me a while to get around to reposting the story with the new cover image, largely because I had to make sure that due credit was given. The cover image is just a cropped version of a much fuller work, which you can find on my Tumblr if you'd like to see it, or check out LB's DeviantArt account!
Also, I suppose while I'm in here under the hood, I should probably go back and fix up some mistakes and sand down some rough edges...but maybe later. I don't want to end up like George Lucas, always going back and fiddling! :D