Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.
It's always like this. My chest aches. It's difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.
I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt. I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draws us together.
Today will be different. I've booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.
I don't call him that to his face. He'd mock me, his voice bitter. "If I were your master, I'd simply order to you leave him and come to me, and you would." He doesn't give me that order, although I suspect that he's tempted. He refrains, out of respect for me and my choices, or maybe in fear that his power over me is not as great as he would like to imagine. He spares us both, and I'm grateful, though now, waiting, burning to see him again, I almost wish that he'd put me to that ultimate test and take away the awful yearning that I feel when we're apart.
Every one of my senses is on alert, yet he manages to surprise me. I'm looking toward the gates. He comes from the other direction and calls to me softly. "Sarah."
I start and then laugh nervously. When I stand up, my bag tumbles off my lap to the floor, toys clattering inside. "You're here!" I feel clumsy, silly, stupid, but when he bends to kiss me, everything but the joy disappears. I'm flooded with it, gasping, overwhelmed.
In his limbs I feel his pitiless strength. His lips, though, are gentle, questioning. Am I still his? I melt, open my mouth and my mind to him. Does he sense the answer? Sometimes I am certain that he reads my thoughts. He laughs ironically and calls me suggestible. I don't know what to believe, which suits him perfectly. He wants me a bit off-balance.
I struggle to act normal, as if I were just meeting an old friend. "How was your flight? Did you have trouble with your connections? What about your baggage? Is that the only jacket you have? October here can be kind of chilly..."
"Hush," he says, laying a blunt finger upon my lips. "Don't chatter. Take me to the hotel."
We take public transit to the city center. The desk clerk eyes us curiously when we register, an odd couple, me so petite and my master so tall, checking into a hotel room at ten-thirty in the morning. I blush as the clerk hands back my credit card. "Have a nice stay," he says, and I'm sure that I catch something conspiratorial in his tone. However, my master is already pulling me towards the elevator; I don't have time to worry about what other people think.
This hotel is more than a hundred years old. I selected it deliberately, hoping that it might offer some Victorian style, but the room is fairly ordinary -- no four-poster bed, no fireplace, no curtain fastenings that might serve double duty as attachment points for bonds.
There is, however, a fine wing-back chair next to the window, with a footstool. My master tosses his backpack in the corner and settles himself into the chair. He grins at me, and butterflies swoop through my stomach. "Well, Sarah. Alone at last."
I stand on the other side of the room, the bed between us, clutching my bag. What I really want to do is to rush over and kneel at his feet. I can't move, though. It seems as though I'm in a dream, rooted to the spot. Hardly surprising. I've dreamed about this meeting for months.
How shall we start, then? Should I strip? The last time we were in a hotel room together, years ago, he bound me to the desk chair with my stockings. The time before, he unscrewed the post from the fake colonial bed and fucked me with it until my screams brought the hotel management knocking on the door. But that was in another life, before I misread my master's heart and chose a different partner.
"So, what do you have in your bag?" he asks finally, after watching me squirm for long moments.
"I have the corset." I'd purchased it for myself, thinking to please him, knowing that there was no way he would ever buy me one.
"Good. And the other things that I told you to bring?"
"I have the ruler, the rope, the alligator clips, and the timer." I remove the items one by one, arraying them on the bed for his inspection. Without announcing it, I take out a package of condoms and place it on the bedside table. His eyebrows arch in a silent question, but he just nods.
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't find a rug beater, or the switches. It's too late in the year; the trees are too brittle. Anyway, I wouldn't have been able to carry them..."
"No excuses!" He sounds stern but I can see a smile twitching at the corner of his full lips. "I'm sure that you know better than to disobey me. We'll see about your punishment later."
He settles back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Right now, I want to see you in your corset."
I carefully extract the gorgeous black satin garment from its tissue paper wrapping. My master looks relaxed, but I know he's not missing any detail as I pull my jersey over my head and attack the buttons at my waist. Of course I'm not wearing a bra. My nipples feel hot, as if illuminated by a spotlight. They seem to scream "look at me, see how stiff I am".
My rayon skirt pools around my ankles and then I'm naked in front of him for the first time in nearly two decades. His eyes widen but he doesn't say a word.
"Why don't you close your eyes while I put it on? It's rather an awkward process. And I want you to get the full effect."
"You can't hide anything from me, Sarah," he says, but still, he turns to look out the window while I struggle with the clasps and laces.
My fingers don't work at all, I'm so nervous. I know he's getting impatient, yet I can't seem to reach the last hooks. I suck in my stomach, worried that I've gained weight and I won't be able to fasten the thing, but finally, I manage.
The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don't burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.
"Okay – I'm ready."
My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. "Very nice. Come over here."
Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.
"Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let's see more of your tits and your ass."
His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I'm terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn't touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.
I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I'm close enough to him. I know he can smell it to. I don't dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I'm wearing the collar he once promised me.
I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he's as aroused as I am. And all at once I'm awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown three thousand miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.
"Bend over," he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn't touch me.
His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he'll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I'll die if he doesn't do it soon.
Still, I'm not prepared when he slaps one cheek with his open palm. "Ow!"
"You are such a nasty little girl! I had forgotten. But now I remember (slap) just how kinky and twisted you really are." He gives me three more spanks in quick succession, and I'm wailing out loud. At the same time, I'm hoping that he doesn't stop.
Of course he does, knowing how to stoke my fires with frustration, but only for a moment. "Across my knees, Sarah." The armchair is perfect for a spanking, and once again my spirit soars, as he lays into me, landing one ferocious blow after another on my tender butt. I'm where I belong, and both of us know it.
My butt is burning like it's been barbecued. It's starting to hurt enough to interfere with the pleasure. I wonder if he still has that uncanny sense of my limits that he used to demonstrate. Just as the thought crosses my mind, he whispers in my ear.
"I'll bet anything that you're soaking wet, Sarah." Without waiting for a reply, he thrusts three fat fingers deep into me. The fires race from my ass to my cunt and back. I come hard, grinding down on his hand, wanting him deeper, always deeper.
Afterwards, he strokes my hair and plants little kisses on my ravaged ass. As for me, I'm content to just lie across his lap, glowing inside and out from his attentions. His erection pokes through his slacks and into my belly. He doesn't make any moves to release his cock, and I don't dare do so myself.
He's restless, though, aware as I am of the minutes ticking away. "Go get the ruler," he tells me. It amuses him to have me supply the instruments of my own torment.
"Oh no, please, I'm too sore! Please, wait a while till I recover."
He ruffles my hair. "Okay, the rope then. Then I want you on your back on the bed. Legs wide, knees up to your shoulders."
I'm not sure that I'm still flexible enough to comply with his orders, but I manage. He loops the soft cotton rope around one thigh. "Sit up." I struggle to raise my back off the bed, and he slips the rope underneath, around my torso, then winds it around my other thigh. I'm now roped open, my cunt lips spread wide. It's an incredibly vulnerable position. I love it.
"Grab your ankles." When I do, he circles my wrist and ankle on the left and then the right, binding them together on each side. He finishes up on my left side with a neat bow.
His light mood has fled. He's concentrated, serious. A sparkle of fear dazzles me. What will he do, now that I'm totally helpless?
"How's that? Any pain, or numbness?" I wiggle my fingers and toes, then shake my head.
"Good. Now take a look at yourself."
I hadn't realized that there was a mirror at the foot of the bed. It's difficult to raise my head enough to regard my reflection, but it's worth it. In all the filthy pictures and videos he has sent me, I've rarely seen something so obscene. My thighs and belly are pale as marble contrasted with the black satin of the corset. My labia, emerging from the damp tangle of my pubic hair, are purple and puffy. They are stretched wide, open, and I can see a wet cavern between them, pulsing and quivering. I can't see my clit, but I can feel it, hard, insistent, crying out for his attention.
He zips open his backpack and pulls out a plastic bag. "I thought I should bring some supplies of my own." What does he have, I wonder, simultaneously worried and aroused. He replies as if I'd asked the question aloud. "Just a few clothes pins and elastic bands." He hovers over me, searching my face. "Are you ready?"
I nod, then yell as he fastens a plastic clothes pin to one of my pussy lips. It bites into my flesh. Sharp pain ricochets through my sex. Each echo modulates subtly in the direction of pleasure. I feel liquid trickling from my cleft onto the bedspread. Then he ramps up the pain again by clipping a symmetrical pin opposite the first.
"You know I'm a frugal guy. Why bother paying for toys when there are so many ordinary household items that can be pressed into kinky service? Shall I add a third clothes pin on your clit, Sarah?"
The pain is already overwhelming, though muddied with pleasure. He's giving me the chance to choose. I don't really want more pain, but I want, I need to please him. There's so much time to make up for.
"If you want," I whisper. "Whatever you want." My clit throbs, trembles, anticipating new agony. But I'm so aroused by now that the the third pin hardly hurts. It just turns up the volume on the pleasure.
My master sweeps a fingertip through the opened folds of flesh in front of him, ending with a flick to the plastic pin fastened to my core. I moan and writhe, though I can hardly move, trussed up as I am. "You looks so sexy, Sarah. I've got to get some pictures."
He leaves me stranded on the bed, open and aching, while he gets his camera. The shutter clicks quietly as he captures me from a variety of angles. "These will keep me company, after you've gone." I'm so embarrassed I think that I'll die, but at the same I can't wait to see the photos. "Maybe I'll put these up on the Internet."
"No, you wouldn't..."
"Are you sure?" I'm not, not a hundred percent. He has a contrary streak that's a bit scary. "Or maybe I should email them to him." My master has actually met my husband, briefly, but he refuses to say David's name.
"No, don't, please...." David knows, intellectually, that I'm interested in BDSM, but I think he'd find these photos, this reality, pretty difficult to face.
My master leans over and brushes his lips across mine. "Don't worry. I think I want to keep these treasures all to myself." This brief intimacy is enough to set me shuddering, teetering on the edge of another orgasm. He sees, and laughs.
"Don't come yet, little one. I've got some new sensations for you."
He kneels on the bed between my splayed thighs, and I hope against hope that he'll simply pull out his cock and fuck me. But instead he grabs one of the elastic bands and starts snapping it hard against my inner thighs. The rubber stings the tender skin there; I notice that dampness seems to make the sensation stronger. The pain is not extreme, but it wakens the bite of the clothes pins.
"The elastic leaves little red marks," he tells me. "I'll bet you'll still have them tomorrow."
There is no tomorrow. There is only now. I'm tingling all over, balanced between pleasure and pain, wanting him as I've never wanted anything else.
"Please..." I moan. "Please, Eric, touch me..."
"Poor little Sarah," he says. "My poor horny little slave." He wriggles one of the clothes pins on my labia, and I scream at the fresh rush of pain. He pulls roughly at the one attached to my clit. I tumble into a loud, frenzied climax, my body jerking like a helpless puppet as jolt after jolt of ecstasy hits me.
I regain my senses. I'm drenched with sweat. The bedspread underneath me is sodden. My master is smiling at me, looking pleased with himself. Love surges in me; tears tickle the corners of my eyes. I want to let him know what he does to me, how much I need him, how grateful I am.
"Feeling better now?"
I nod weakly. "Thank you..." The words I want to say suddenly seem silly, mushy. He'll just mock me the way he so often does. I lie silent as he removes the clothespins. I still feel the ghost of their bite. He begins to untie me, the stops.
"I'm hungry. How about some lunch?"
Maybe lunch would be a good idea, a chance to take a few deep breaths, reduce the intensity. "There's a nice sushi place around the corner that we used to go to..." I tend to avoid using David's name under these circumstances, too.
"Oh, I don't want to waste our time by going out. I'll just order room service."
"But..." He withers my objections with a masterful look. Before long he's on the phone, ordering a hamburger and french fries and an ice tea. "What do you want, Sarah?"
I'm not hungry. I'm aching and stiff and a bit sad. "Oh, I don't know. Do they have tuna sandwiches?"
"One tuna sandwich coming up." He conveys the information to the person at the other end of the phone, then hangs up. "Ten minutes, they say."
"That's fast! So, can you untie me now?"
"No, I don't think that I want to do that just yet. I'd like the room service waiter to have the chance to appreciate you."
"No! Please, no." The thought is as horrifying as it is arousing.
"Are you refusing me, Sarah? After all these years, are you going to disappoint me?"
No, not that. I've disappointed him so many times. Broken so many promises, as we both know. This time, today, I want more than anything to please him.
"No – it's okay. If that's what you want."
He sits down next to me, gently brushes my hair away from my face. "Good girl. You're mine, aren't you, Sarah? Mine to use as I please?"
The old thrill races through my trussed up body. This is what I crave, to be owned, to be cherished. "Yes," I say, so soft that he has to lean close to hear. "I'm yours." And at that moment, as he kisses me, I believe what I am saying with all my heart.
The doorbell shocks us both. "Hush, be still now," he says as he gets up. "Just a moment," he calls to the waiter. He raises the corner of the bedspread and flips it over me, hiding my bound form. Then he goes to the door.
The waiter looks barely twenty, rangy with tousled blond hair. He can't help staring at the strange, shrouded lump that is my body as Eric signs the check. "Is your wife all right?" he asks.
"My wife couldn't be better," Eric replies. I hear an edge in his voice that the waiter probably misses. "We're just playing a little game."
"Hide and seek?".
Eric tries hard not to laugh. "Not exactly... There you go. Thank you."
"Sure thing. Have a nice lunch."
"Oh, we will."
I'm laughing too, in relief and in joy at being alone again. I should have known that he wouldn't risk exposing me that way. Then I think of some of our past encounters, and I'm not so sure.
"I'm always torn," says Eric as he works at undoing my bonds. "Between showing the world what a delicious slut you are, and keeping you all to myself."
I stretch out my legs and groan at the stiffness.
"Sorry to keep you tied up so long. Maybe I got a bit carried away."
"I'm out of shape. Not used to this stuff anymore."
"I'll get you whipped into shape in no time." He hands me my sandwich with a grin. "Here. You've got to keep your strength up."
"You know, it was so hard to decide what to take with me this time. I thought about bringing my laptop and some recent videos. We could watch them together – there's nobody I can really share that sort of kinky stuff with except you. But then I thought we wouldn't have the time... One idea I had was to make a ginger fig for you – you know, a little present after not seeing you for so long. I'd love to see how you react to a spicy plug of raw ginger up your ass. But then I realized that it would dry out on the trip, wouldn't be effective..."
He talks on between bites of his hamburger. I'm content just to sit here in his presence, my sex still humming from my orgasms, listening to my master, face to face with him at last.
After a while, though, both his food and his conversation run out, and we're there, looking at each other, wondering what comes next.
"I want to see you naked," I say finally.
"Well, I want to try out that wooden ruler." So he does, and of course, I like it. I've always been willing to let him experiment on my body. It turns me on like nothing else, to put myself in his hands, to let him investigate the effects of various implements, positions and techniques. Sometimes the sensations are pleasurable. Even if they're not, giving myself to him sends me flying. When we're apart I miss his voice, his hands, his humor, his intelligence, but most of all I miss the roller-coaster thrill of his taking control and his outrageous sexual imagination.
By mid-afternoon my buttocks are criss-crossed with scarlet streaks and I've shaken through two more climaxes. He seems pleased with himself. Still, he must be frustrated. Certainly there has been a bulge in his trousers ever since my first spanking.
We're stretched out together on the bed. I've taken off the corset. He's still fully clothed. Tentatively I reach out and stroke his erection. "Aren't you uncomfortable? Don't you want to come?"
"I'm putting it off as long as I can. When I come once, that's usually it for quite a while."
I remember in the early days of our relationship, how he'd jack off all over my bound body and be ready to fuck me twenty minutes later. He reads my thoughts.
"Yeah, well, I was a lot younger then. So were you."
"Eric... what can I do for you?"
He sighs. "You're here. You let me touch you, bind you, beat you. You come for me."
"Is that really enough?"
"Maybe it has to be enough."
"No – you deserve more, Eric."
The bitterness in his laugh wounds me. "I don't even have the right to that much. But if you insist, Sarah, you can suck me." He is already unbuckling his pants.
"Oh, yes!" I'm jubilant, eager to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he has evoked in me. I understand that my submission satisfies him in ways that are deeper than a physical orgasm. But I want him to enjoy the physical side as well.
He sits up in the bed, propped against the headboard. I kneel between his spread thighs. His cock is pale with pulsing purple veins. The skin is stretched so tight, I'm sure that he'll burst the instant that I take him into my mouth.
I'm a bit reticent. None of our previous reunions has included anything like this. I begin by licking him gently, flicking the tip of my tongue across his slit, massaging the bulb, soaking him with my saliva. He tastes salty and a bit sour, unfamiliar. The strangeness makes me see and wonder at how comfortable we are together, generally, despite our long separations.
Soon I am sucking hard, taking his full length down my throat. He's mostly passive, letting me do the work. Only his cock, jumping or twitching in response to my tongue, tells me how he's feeling. Aside from an occasional grunt or moan, he's quiet. Mostly, there's just the squelch of my wet mouth on his smooth flesh.
I want him to come, to pump, to thrust, to yell, to flood my mouth with his bitter spunk. I suck on and on, my jaws beginning to ache, feeling terribly inadequate that I can't give my master one good orgasm after he's made me come so many times. I reach out to him with my thoughts, begging him to relax, to trust me, to give himself to me.
And all at once, as if in answer, he quickens. He starts to jerk his cock back and forth between my lips. He arches his back, slamming his rod against my palette, using all the strength of his massive body to stimulate himself. I'm gagging, almost choking, but I don't care. He's finally close. I can feel the fluid pumping up the length of him, pulsing, swelling, and I hold my breath, praying for his release.
When he howls, when his come fills my mouth and flows down my chin, I give thanks for his benediction.
We doze for a while, in each other's arms. It has been so long, too long. I often dream of him, of us together, of a time like this. Comfort and peace in the wake of passion, complementary desires satisfied. Two sexual outlaws, offering sanctuary to one another.
The rays of the sun slant in, gilding the wing-back chair. It's nearly evening. Soon we'll need to rise. We'll shower together, then I'll put on the bra and panties that I brought, to make myself outwardly respectable. He'll come with me to the station, kiss me tenderly goodbye, and put me on the bus for the two hour voyage back to my home and my husband. I'll spend those hours feeling my master's marks, reliving these few magic hours.
My master will stay in this room tonight. After all, it's already paid for. It will still smell of my cunt and his come.
My husband will greet my bus. He'll kiss me. He won't ask questions. I'll have dinner with him, feeling guilty and awkward, but grateful for his unselfish acceptance of something he doesn't understand.
Later, there will be poems and post-mortems. My master and I will discuss, via email, all the things we didn't do. The alligator clips. The unopened package of condoms.
And we'll dream of the next time outside time, our next reunion.