Kevin: 4-2: bondage room

Part two of two.

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For a submissive, one of the things about a bondage experience is that you have a lot of time to think. The dom toys with you slowly. He takes his time. He has no obligation to live in your time, and you may be there for hours.

You’re tied, bound in some diabolical formation, and you can do nothing. Minutes are lethargic, during which you’re left only with thoughts and feelings of the humiliation you’re strapped into. This warp of space-time, this D/s time, is subspace, something in between reality and fantasy, a kind of dream state.

Kevin has left the room for a drink. It’s a little thing, him leaving, but it does something to me. My mind races to wild places:

The experience of him leaving whispers to me that he has other, better things to do. That he is tired of me. I no longer fascinate him. He’s decided to work on his truck instead.

I imagine this might be my permanent life now, a life in bondage in this bondage room, a life in which Kevin comes and goes to entertain himself with me randomly. A life in which I become his hobby, his pastime.

I wonder again about the seven construction workers. For a hot second I think that he’s orchestrated this, that now is the time Kevin will usher them in, showing them the glory of my ass, oiled and plugged. If there were an ultimate humiliation, that would be it — my being ceremoniously unplugged and seven men peering into my gaping asshole — with an excursion the next day to the construction site where I’d have to greet once again those same seven men.

Another random, racing thought: Kevin, I recall, has scheduled for us tomorrow night dinner with one of the company executives and his wife. At some restaurant, we will be sitting across from Mr. and Mrs. Holman making pleasant conversation. In their presence, I will remember this moment in which I am ass-naked, bound, and oiled like a slick pig. In my imagined fear, I think that somehow they will know, that they will sense this about me, that they will visualize me just like this, my ass up and out and spread.

I hear Kevin coming back, and I am grateful. I need to be freed from crazy imaginings. Now I just want him to do things to me, to distract me from this mind-space, to make my flesh my only focus.

He walks in with a whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in another. He sits in the chair to the side of me. He crosses his legs. He is so very male-alpha-dom.

It is happy hour. And I think Kevin is very, very happy.

---

So far, my forecasts of the evening have been way off, and Kevin has kept me off-balance, so I don’t know why I dare at this point to predict in my mind how he will do me through the rest of the evening. But like I say, there is nothing but time in bondage sub-space, and thinking about Kevin’s possible violations of me is a place for my mind to go.

I am thinking that, in Kevin’s fucking strategy, the butt plug is a substitute for him in my ass. He won’t do me there, so my logic goes. Although that might be wishful thinking. Not that I dread him ass-fucking me, but well, you know, that’s a complicated feeling, both physically and emotionally, especially in bondage. Even so, I think he’s not going to go there. Literally.

My sense of things also is that he will play with my pussy — slide objects into me, like pistons — but not enter me himself. Straight intercourse is too conventional. In a way, that’s our normal life now. So he won’t finish there.

Yet, even as I plot this, I realize it my scenario would mean he never would actually be inside me — and that doesn’t make sense. I don’t know.

But I do believe he will save himself for my hands and mouth. He will finish me by putting me on the floor kneeling, and have me cock-suck him for the grand finale. This is “our thing” in a way. He will enjoy spraying himself all over my face. He’ll leave me there, letting his manhood drip from my eyes and lips onto my breasts. He’ll walk out of the room, maybe even shower, eventually to return to look at me, his handiwork, in gooey humiliation.

This is his fucking strategy, but it’s a guess, and at this point I’m not sure of anything.

---

Kevin begins to flog me.

In my foregoing analysis, I have completely forgotten about floggers and whips. This is going to be a long night…

He starts lightly, warming my ass and the backs of my thighs. He has a rhythm — one, two, three, and then a pause. Like a waltz, it is his own dance of leathers upon my backside, a movement in three that I cannot see.

In time, he increases his weight behind the flogger and it lands more heavily. But even now it does not hurt so much as burn, the warming of my initial flogging becoming hotter, my cheeks awakening, reddening.

For me, none of this is about punishment, and it doesn’t carry the onus of guilt or remorse. It’s a different kind of debasement, and each swat of the flogger deepens my imagined public shame, my having to answer someone’s curious question with the answer, “Yes he sometimes gives me beatings.”

I now breathe in sync with his hits, inhaling right before “one” and exhaling right after “three.” As he flogs me harder, sometimes my breaths carry sound, soft moans and rough grunts. My vocals sing in concert with his symphonic waltz, and we are together in this thing we are doing.

He beats me like this because he can. He can because I am so hopelessly submissive that I have to — have to give myself to be arranged ass-up and tied down, have to allow myself to become a target for this man’s dominance.

Kevin stops for a moment, walks close to me from behind. I feel his hand come between my legs and up to my pussy. I have become wet. His finger the dipstick, it feels like he’s checking the oil on his Ford.

He soon resumes his flogging, but now on every third stanza instead of the flogger I feel the whip. He lands it softly but it stings. In time he wields it more harshly, and now I yelp each time it hits.

It occurs to me then that Kevin might use the crop or the signal whip on me, something more sharp and biting, to leave marks, to stripe me.

Such that Master McKenna would see.

---

One moment stands out.

I am still ass up, stretched forward, my wrists shacked to the end of the bondage table. My head is tilted to one side as he pleasures himself with me.

Kevin comes alongside, kneels down to look at my face and look into my eyes. He says nothing.

He stands again and rests his cock, semi-erect, on the table inches from my mouth. There are no words. He doesn’t have to tell me what to do. He knows I want it.

It lays out like it’s pointing at me, its girth thick, its flesh taut and purple-veined, its head bulbous and pink and smooth.

As it rests on the leather surface, I lean toward it, stretching my neck to get to it. But because my arms are tied above me, my range of movement is restricted. I get close to it, but not close enough to take it between my lips. He planned it this way. It’s his tease.

I extend my tongue and am able to lick the tip of Kevin’s cock. I do so again, then again, lapping with shameless need, like a kitten licking its paws.

Kevin watches as I reach my tongue for his succulent dick.

He laughs, then walks away.

---

He rearranges me on the bondage table, now on my back. He uses leather straps to bind my forearms to my ankles, making my legs raise up in the air and spread wide. I can force my legs closed, but it’s not a position I can hold. My legs angle out, and my pussy spreads open.

He slides me to the end of the table and adjusts the table’s height.

Again, he leaves. He wants another bourbon, I know, and also wants the experience of walking back in to see from the vista of the doorway my splayed-open pussy, the focus of a landscape panorama.

Bound there, I wait for my further defilement for what seems like an hour. It deepens my sensation of being an object, wet and waiting, always there for when he decides to use me.

My breasts ache now from their constriction. I feel the air, cool, on my bared pussy. I am thirsty, but not for water.

In some measure of time, he enters the room.

And straightaway enters me.

---

The experience of being penetrated while I’m tied down affects me in a different way than other sex. It’s profound and dramatic. It’s also violating.

To be clear, it’s consensual, and no has one forced me to be where I am, to submit to him now. I have a safe word, a “no,” that I can use at any time, though I have never used it and won’t now. But tacit consent doesn’t mean — as Kevin’s cock poises at the entrance of my womanhood — that right now I really want this. I do, but I don’t, or better to say, I want this, but on my own terms.

This is a moment that smacks you like a horsewhip and reminds you of the Choice you once made to relinquish all choice thereafter. The point is, as a sex slave bound and spread, I don’t have the right to any of “my own terms.”

This moment is the crux of what bondage means: I am physically bound to reflect how I am submissively bound, and being violated by him now is one of those choices I relinquished.

Kevin pushes into me and triggers my moment.

He enters my vagina, and while it seems so wrong, it feels good, its very illicitness so sweetly erotic. Indeed, Kevin slides in too easily, my body conspiring against me to give permission. Truth is, my pussy has been wet from the beginning — he had it at hello — and my flesh is inviting him in (it would invite everyone if it could). My mind is still coping with my violation, surprisingly bewildered at how this man’s cock is having its way with me.

His very fucking of me — the one-two rhythm of him pushing in then sliding out — prompts me to silently protest on “one” then beg please don’t go on “two.” In that moment between, the pause between beats, he fills me and swells inside me and makes me want.

He stands at my entrance and pumps me, his cock growing more steely with every thrust, his thrusts hard enough to bounce my breasts now so engorged.

To my submissive shame, being violated electrifies me, and the jolts trigger me. It is too soon — I feel on the edge already. Oh, please, not yet.

Despite my inner protest, my climax rises up and rolls through me.

Kevin slows.

He watches my orgasm take me over in shudders.

I shake as it rolls through me.

---

He leaves the room again, perhaps allowing me time to recover.

I think I hear him on the phone talking to someone, but maybe not. It is distant, and I am in never-neverland, so I may have imagined it. But it occurs to me that it would be the ultimate in alpha-male hubris to be in the middle of a bondage session with slave girl Shae when he makes a call to girlfriend Miranda.

What we imagine. I don’t believe he did make any call. But I don’t know.

---

If there’s any need to reinforce the notion that in bondage you exist only for the pleasure of another, it’s when your climax is not the climax of the evening. I come, and Kevin watches, but that is incidental to his purpose.

He unbinds me, and now shackles me standing, attaching me again to the ceiling bar. He has his playtime with me there awhile. My breasts, still rubber-banded, are now pinkish-purple and aching. He fondles them and squeezes them, and I bite my tongue trying not to yelp from this combination of pleasure and pain.

Kevin flogs me more across my ass, then whips me with the signal whip. He seems to aim in a certain way, twice, and the crack of the whip is hard and sharp, and I scream.

I will see later that he has indeed left his marks, two of them, for me to take home.

He teases me with his cock, making me tell him how much I want it.

I believed this would be the endgame, according to my estimate of his strategy in doing me — finishing me with a juicy cocksucking.

He surprises me.

---

Again he leaves the room. I realized later this has been intentional on his part, changing the routine, making it a different experience. Each time he exits, I descend into in different thoughts and anticipations.

This time I wonder what if he didn’t return. What if I’m left there for hours. Overnight. For a day.

How I would be found.

---

I expect him to put me on my knees, my mouth open. What can I say? I want his cock in my mouth.

Instead, he arranges me again on the bondage table ass up and facing back, as he had had me before. This wasn’t according to my predicted plan for his use of me. It was repetitive, not efficient. His strategy is proving too random for me to make sense of. And that, I realize, is his real strategy.

Kevin wriggles the butt plug out of my ass.

He replaces it with himself. He is, thankfully, oiled, lubed with something, and as he pushes, I moan, feeling his unique girth squeeze into me, but he doesn’t hurt.

He penetrates me deeper than the plug, and I am tight for him, but with each back and forth, I open up more.

My face is pressed flush against the padded table, turned sideways, and my swollen tits crush against the leather, aching hard as they are rolled back and forth in rhythm to Kevin’s pumping of me.

It becomes a feeling of debased use. I remember my first time with Kevin, how he then “claimed” me, as he put it, and how I learned about being claimed by a man — the experience of my mind and flesh being imprinted in a certain way by a specific manhood. This is now all of that once again, bypassing rational thought, and somehow intensified by him now violating me in anal sex.

Time passes — is he doing me like this for five minutes or an hour? Kevin has remarkable stamina. He sometimes slows, then quickens. But in some frame of bondage time, whatever it is, Kevin finishes himself in me.

He comes in loud grunts and sighs, a final thrust pushing himself far in and holding himself there, his balls gracing my pussy underneath.

His cum, warm and thick, fills me deep.

---

There is a slow rhythm to the aftermath. It’s an adagio.

Kevin pulls himself out of me — and pushes the butt plug back in.

He stands for a moment, gathering himself, looking at me, his conquest, my striped and filled ass. He has claimed and marked his territory.

In a while he puts his flogger and whip away.

He unbinds me, turns me over, and removes the rubber bands from my breasts. Tears come to my eyes as he does.

He fetches the oil and lube he used, and stores them away in their places in the corner.

I remain on the bondage table, curling up into myself, coming down from my claiming.

He takes a towel and wipes down some wetted surfaces.

My eyes close. I will stay here, just this way, for quite a while, lost in my subspace.

Kevin comes beside me, reaches for my hand, squeezes it.

I squeeze back.

---

Later, I take a quick shower and slip into a white chemise. I pour myself a glass of wine, and return to the living room.

Kevin is there, sitting at one end of the couch, dressed now in sweat pants and a T-shirt, his head back and eyes closed. He has music on in the background.

I sit adjacent to him on the couch, folding my legs under me, leaning back. “Thank you,” I say.

He makes a sound in response but says nothing. His eyes remain closed.

I smile.

A minute later, he asks, “Still wearing the butt plug?”

I pause, close my eyes and lean my head on the top of the couch. “Yes, I am,” I finally say, his precious juice held and cherished deep inside me.