Kevin: 4-1: bondage room

Part one of two. This took place during my last visit with Kevin, on the evening of March 26, a Friday night. For those new to my blog, I am provided to Kevin every six weeks as a kind of companion-escort, but special permission has been granted him to take me dominantly one night per visit.

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He has me in the bondage room tonight. My wrists are chained to an overhead bar, and I stand naked in heels.

His dominance of me started at dawn. This was not the Amanda- approved plan, but he did it anyway. I submitted to it.

He collared me at 7:00 a.m. and leashed me on the floor, attaching me to the breakfast table while he read the newspaper and had his coffee.

He spoke my middle name, “Maura,” which was from way back our code word for sucking his cock. I slid under the table, my chains dragging across the floor, and positioned myself between his legs. He said, “No, I’ve changed my mind.” After a minute under the table, I begged, “Please.” Silence. He got up and left me chained on the floor for another half hour, as if I didn’t matter.

He had me attached to things all day. Later he attached me to a tree in the side yard, and another time to his front door. In the afternoon he chained me to the tow bar of his Ford truck.

He took me on some errands, including a stop at one of his construction sites. I wore a collar, though I was not leashed.

I knew what he is doing — putting me in a sub space in prep for the bondage room later — but even though I knew his method, it was effective. It submerged me.

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He stares at me naked, chained. I know my body looks different to him now than in my normal life with him as an escort. I am the same flesh and curves, but now his eyes scan me with a gaze of possession. It’s what always happens when a man knows he can do anything he wants with you.

He is figuring how he will do me, and in what order. This is also a calculation of his own biology, for he would love to come in me in several places over several hours, not to mention ultimately shooting his cream on my breasts and face. But he knows, practically speaking, he has just one good shot. How shall he get there, and where will that be?

I know enough not to speak. He is developing in his mind his fucking strategy, and interruptions from me will frustrate him and make for a bad vibe. Better for me not to know anyway.

His demeanor is different, and I stand feeling deeply objectified in his view. I imagine he sees my body as a map: he has several possible destinations and is drawing his itinerary from here to there. I almost expect him to take a magic marker and draw arrows on my skin.

In time, he speaks. “You love sucking cock.” Even his voice is different, now thick and growly. It’s not a question but a statement, the truth of it he well knows. As his courtesan girl in softer situations, I have admitted my cravings, and we have taken to playfully calling it my “so-called addiction.” These are things he knows full well. Of course, the point here in the bondage room is not information but humiliation. He wants to use this in a different way.

I know he wants a response, but I say nothing. I find that in certain slave times resistance naturally forms inside me. Submissive though I am, I don’t wish to give him everything. Here, it’s ridiculous, of course: I am undressed, shackled to the ceiling in a bondage room, a self-confessed sex slave conceding myself into the usage of a profoundly dominant man — and yet something in me wants to withhold my response, as if my refusal to answer this sex question is any proof of my virtue.

My words are all I can keep from him. Stepping into the bondage room, I am already giving him my flesh. I do not separate my feelings from my body, so he has me that way too. He can do what he wishes with me, physically and sexually, and it will command me as well emotionally.. All I can possibly hold on to is language — my words. And even that is about to give forth.

Tolerating my pause for now, he says it again, “You love sucking cock. Don’t you.” He frames it now as a question, but it comes out as a statement, one he wants me to affirm.

Kevin walks to the corner of the bondage room where he keeps his implements. He takes a whip in hand, a single-tail whip designed for enhanced sting and welt.

I finally respond: “You know I do.”

“You do what?”

He wants to hear me say it. Still I pause, though I eventually relent: “Yes, I do love,” I say, “I love sucking cock.”

“Any man’s cock,” he asks, “or just mine?”

This throws me off. Again he has changed his routine of predictable prompts. This seems like a trick question. One answer denies my general craving, the other diminishes him. The truth is both: “You know that I enjoy your cock more than any, ” I say. “And as you know, yes, I desire others’ as well.”

“What does that make you?” Again he wants me to say the very words.

And again I am slow to speak. He hasn’t disciplined me for my hesitancy, and maybe I can get away with it longer. I figure he wants to see how it is difficult for me to acknowledge these things before him.

I push pause as long as I think I can. Finally, I give in and speak it: “I am a cocksucker.”

He lets my words hang in the air.

If this were the forced script of a role play, it would be meaningless and trivial. Yet this is not fiction but fact, and it stings because it has the ring of truth. I have said so to him more euphemistically in other ways. Now I have said it, relinquished it, to him. Kevin has deftly taken a privacy shared and tugged it out, undressed it, and pushed it into its basest conclusion, bringing me to state for the record what I am — a cocksucker.

He continues to circle me, his whip in hand. “Some of my men [at the construction site],” he says, “would like for that to happen.”

I don’t get his meaning at first. “Would like what to happen?”

“Cocksucking. By you.”

I didn’t expect this. Our time at the construction site today was brief, uneventful. I had worn a metal collar, got the usual looks. But I could not imagine in those moments any of his men would come out and say such things to him. Kevin is baiting me.

But he’s a step ahead: “Logan and I talked later. The men were talking about you after we left.”

I’m speechless. I remember he did get a call from Logan Gattis later in the afternoon.

“I thought it would be interesting to invite them all here.” Kevin stands back, in front of me, watching, waiting for his words to sink in.

For a moment I panic. Is this for real? Are those men standing outside the bondage room waiting to come in?

“I’d like to have them,” he says, “come in here, line up, and drop trou. You’d be on your knees, sucking cocks, one after another.”

No, they are not actually here, I say to myself. They can’t be. I take a deep breath.

“I assume you will be a good girl about that.”

My mind is reeling. He said will be a good girl. Not would. To him it’s not hypothetical. It’s a real question to him. Kevin could very well arrange something like this. Would he possibly get Amanda to agree? Did he already? Would he even ask her? What would she say?

Kevin continues: “There will be seven of them. They will come in your mouth or on your face. Their choice.” He pauses. He wants to see my humiliation imagining this possibility. It’s working, mostly because he’s made me believe it could really happen. “Again,” he says, “I need to know you will be a good girl about this. I can’t have you make a scene.”

I say nothing, but now not because I’m resisting him. I am preoccupied with getting my head around whether this is real or not.

Kevin’s patience with me has worn thin. His whip comes cracking across my bare ass. I shriek, stumble forward, my breasts bouncing.

“Yes, yes,” I quickly relent, “I would be a good girl.”

“I want to hear what that means in terms of what you will do.”

“Yes, I would suck their cocks.” I say. “Seven of them, until they come in my mouth or on my face.”

Kevin steps in front of me, smiling. We both know he will use my words later, after tonight, maybe tomorrow and sometime next month when I am back. Coerced or not, my words are true, and we both know that. “Seven,” he will then say, teasingly speaking just that single number, which will put into my mind this scenario, this image of seven men, and my agreement to it. My concession isn’t feigned — he knows I assumed it might actually happen, that I said yes, that I would give blowjobs to seven men standing in a line. “We know what you have agreed to,” he will remind me, “and what you are capable of.”

He watches my face fill with blush and my nipples harden and my chest become splotchy with shame. He smiles at my humiliation. He has me where he wants me — surprised and off-balance, reeling.

He has been planning this for some time.

---

This was our second recent bondage room experience — that is, of this “modern era.” The first had to be aborted.

I had written not many posts ago about that February bondage-room experience with Kevin, and how it was interrupted by a phone call he received. It was something he had to respond to quickly. One of his crew managers was dealing suddenly with a health crisis, and Kevin had to rush out to help.

Bondage interruptus.

He was out till midnight unfortunately, and I had to return to Amanda the next morning. Not his fault, of course, and it is testimony to his virtue as a leader that he is so close to his employees, his crews, that he comes to their side when something like this becomes critical. But for us both, it was disappointing.

Our long-awaited return to bondage had to be postponed.

But there was something else disappointing in it. As we had started our bondage room experience that first time, I sensed something was off. It just was not working. It felt out-of-sync.

It seemed we were trying to recreate what we had before. In that, we were simply copying old patterns, and nothing was particularly fresh or genuine or surprising.

This second time is different. It seems Kevin has made some adjustments.

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Kevin is done with words, and he sets about doing me in the same meticulous and silent manner as he services his truck.

He stretches rubber belts around my breasts. These look to me like fan belts from an old car. I wouldn’t put it past Kevin, car enthusiast, to use car parts and auto tools on me, but maybe not. These are more elastic. He stretches these black rubber belts to slide over the full orbs of my breasts, onto their base close to my chest wall, where he eases his hands out and the belts return to their tight, unstretched form.

These don’t hurt but constrict my breasts tautly, and over time this night they will cause my breasts to ache fiercely.

Kevin takes some oil and coats my boobs with it. In the moment, I wonder if this is actual motor oil, but it is thinner than I imagine that to be. It is an oil not a lotion, and leaves my breasts shiny and slick.

He unshackles me from the ceiling bar and has me climb up onto the bondage table, positioning me on my hands and knees. I lean forward and down so my breasts are just kissing the padded leather surface. Stretching my arms forward, he shackles my wrists to the far end of the table.

He spreads my legs, shackling my ankles to the table rings on the side. As such, my ass is positioned high and opens up into the air as my legs are pulled wide. I recognize this as something close to the slave position in Gorean tradition known as the “she-sleen.” I don’t think Kevin knows Gorean, but his purpose is the same — to display me anally and provide him ready access.

Kevin takes some of the same oil and lubes a butt plug. He pushes it against my asshole. There is pressure, and as I’m not used to anal play of late, it hurts as the widening girth of the plug forces me open. I wince at the pain and moan. The plug eventually overcomes my resistance and pops forward, and I take it in. The initial pain gives way to a feeling of fullness. The violation of it is temporary, I know, just until Kevin replaces it with himself.

In all this Kevin is tinkering, just as he does in the garage with his truck. He adjusts the height of the bondage table several times, which is electronically motorized like a dentist’s chair.. I know it gives him special satisfaction to manipulate me by simply pressing a button. He monitors my positioning on the table and shifts me by just an inch this way or that way. He checks my wrist shackles over and over. He is tinkering, tweaking the settings. Making sure he’s going to get maximum RPM.

All this is new to me — Kevin applying to my degradation his mechanic’s deliberate manner and precision. Of course, this is who and how he is, a master of steel truck parts and large forged tools. But this time, he’s brought his hobbyist’s focus into bondage time, and it is as if I am in his garage and I am the object of his mechanical obsession. Whether he is intentionally addressing me this way, with this kind of technical cool, this affects me. This is different from before. My feelings of objectification are over the top. I am splayed open as if on a lift, with my bottom chassis bared for all to see.

Kevin walks around the table, looking at me from every angle.

He leaves the room to pour himself a drink.