He resisted for a second and she dug her boot heel into his back. Such ruthless, cruel treatment, so sudden, I observed, but so appropriately hot. Stephen obeyed, leaning forward and lifting his head, dropping it forward into the bowl, almost graciously, splashing about to drink.
“Tighten the straps,” I instructed the dominatrix, “So he can barely breathe.”
Not quite a conventional first date, I suppose.
Manhattan. One of the finest dungeon facilities in the world; I’d done my research. He told me to pick the location, after all.
Surely, because it was on my dime, I had no problem picking the location with the most ruthless gear and ominous professionals on the scene. I laughed when Stephen seemed to insinuate that I probably didn’t have enough cruelty in me to compromise his own twisted masochistic capabilities.
I’m fairly tenacious, though. I decided to just hire the people to do the work I could not stomach, and at the end of the day, he’d be sufficiently surrendered all the same.
And I’d never even break a sweat.
**
There’s the issue of the pesky guilt, I’ll admit it. He kind of figured that out early on and got a little bit cocky about it, and I think deep down he felt he’d always have the ability to kind of screw with my head, no matter how much he was helpless or in pain. He’d studied me like an interesting creature, but he didn’t know that I could make very rational decisions and was notoriously detailed preparations when guilt was the farthest thing from my mind.
So there it was – the dungeon. The highest paid professional dominatrix in Manhattan. Not that he could see her – he was blindfolded for the introduction, placed in the chair so the lady and I could handle our “transaction,” and her assistants busily, buzzing around quite like efficient bees, did the fastening of the restraints.
He couldn’t see, but he could probably hear the hundred dollar bills being peeled off. One hour, two hours, four hours, no, ten hours. “How late is this place open?”
The smell of money.
A sultry chuckle. “As long as you need,” she said to me.
The fastening of buckles.
“Tighter,” I reminded the little vixens. “So he can barely breathe.”
“So I can barely breathe,” he repeated. Just being Stephen.
I handed the dominatrix the contents of my black wallet. It was all they required, and then some. “I’ll tip you five hundred dollars,” I told the dominatrix, “If you can make him cry.”
**
Blindfolded Stephen got to hear the entire conversation, but didn’t know the transactions happening on paper. The checklists, the legal waiver, a few handwritten notes from me to the dominatrix, notes she read and acknowledged, then showed me around to some of her gear, speaking in a low whisper so Stephen could not hear.
The little buzzing bees, sweet young feminine girls really, did fairly well on the restraints, and by the time they were done, there were so many of them over his naked flesh, he had no idea they’d strapped on the heart rate monitor I gave them. I knew this, in advance, when I made that arrangement – it was my little secret any way. My little hand held device that he’d not see, but I’d know just what he was hiding, behind any stoic look in his eyes, any shrewd attempts to hide his fear.
I held the little watch-like display in my palm, marveling at his resting heart rate – or, as resting as it could be after being strapped down by four young ladies in a Manhattan dungeon – blindfolded.
The dominatrix excused the little assistants, so she could have Stephen all to herself, and I slid comfortably in the leather lounge chair and told her to take her time with the first hour. And leave the blindfold on.
**
An hour under the hands of a woman quite sadistic seemed to be intense yet still erotic for me, but entertaining to watch, to say the least. It was all just warm up, of course, and through a few restrained grunts of discomfort and visible winces, he took it all in stride. The little monitor that showed me his heartbeat told a slightly different story, but nonetheless, he still obviously wasn’t too afraid.
I was disappointed. I thought the blindfold would take him off his game. Maybe he was meditating.
I left my comfortable viewing chair and walked over, taking his hand in my chin very gently and tilting his head up. “Do you want to see?”
“I’d like that,” he responded quietly. Not stubborn. Maybe it was getting to him more than I thought.
I slipped it off easily and watched him blink to adjust his eyes to the bright lights of the room, and then his eyes fell on the tripod with the small video camera pointed at him. “Saving this for posterity, I see.”
Still holding his face by the chin, studying his features, looking for some expression, I explained coolly, “Ten hours, maybe twelve. It will make for some long term enjoyment in the future.”
The dominatrix was behind me, drinking water, sizing him up. I could almost smell her hunger. She was enjoying this way too much. She wanted to get right back into it. I could tell she was figuring out in her head how she could stretch the session to last all ten hours and have him cry at the end, but not before, so she could collect the tip and not have to end the session early with a broken submissive needing a warm blanket and a hug.
“Look around,” I told him. “Look at all this equipment. So many options. And I don’t have to do a thing, just sit back, and watch.”
He swallowed, and took a quick glance, but it didn’t seem to shake him too much. I knew the restraints must be getting too tight, too uncomfortable, and he was restrained in a manner, with a ruthless posture collar, that prevented him from looking down to see it all anyway.
I felt her behind me. She was restless. She had a whip in her hand, maybe a cane. There was a tray of medical instruments at the ready. We were going into the second hour. She wanted more tips, I’m sure, she wanted to give a fine show.
I took my time, though, just tracing my finger across his bottom lip to see if he’d react. I pondered his expression, looked at his hair for a moment, felt traces of it in my fingertips. I leaned down close to his face and put my cheek against his to feel the cool, slightly moist touch of his skin, damped with a little sweat. Closing my eyes, I was content to listen for a moment to the sounds of the leather restraints as they strained against his chest when he breathed. Lovely.
“Are you going to cry?” I asked him softly. It was clear I was asking him – in general – not at that particular moment.
“You seem to be determined,” he responded. “But isn’t it less special to have someone else – “
In a flash, my hand was over his mouth. Tight. I looked intensely at his eyes, then hissed, softly, “Stop.”
One raised eyebrow, and he moved his head slightly, but I didn’t let go.
“Give me a gag,” I told the dominatrix. Cool heels on hardwood floor.
I heard footsteps behind me. Stephen looked at me, then past me at her as she approached. It was handed to me over my shoulder – a simple, but large black ball gag, heavy leather straps. I used both hands to put it on him, and he opened his mouth willingly and deliberately, without fear or hesitation, and I found myself all too eager to assume my safe spot in the big, comfortable chair to watch the dominatrix do my dirty work.
**
“I could get used to this,” I pondered, resting comfortably, watching, surreal, as she brought every bit of her “Sadism A-Game” to the table for Stephen. A couple of changed positions, a medical table and then a rack, eventually a cross, the occasional buzzing of the cute shiny assistants when they were called in to help expedite re-restraining Stephen.
He took it in stride and cooperated, generally, with occasional resistance that the dominatrix squashed with a swift delivery of pain, usually, always with a crop or a cane at the ready, or carefully placed fingers on his most sensitive areas, pulling on clamps or increasing electricity.
I had told him, early on, that the only person with the power to stop the session was me. He did not, and the dominatrix did not, nor did any of the cute girls that flitted in and out of the room when they were required to assist. There was no safeword, just me, and it sufficiently kept his attention on me during most of the – torture – but it wasn’t for mercy, it was just to keep me in the game. He knew where his bread was buttered, so to speak.
I think this kind of made the dominatrix jealous a few times, because she’d take his chin and direct his eyes to her and bark at him or growl orders and he’d respond appropriately, then steel a quick glance at me to see if I was still watching.
Watching, indeed. Sometimes half reclined, sometimes blatantly masturbating, I didn’t really care. Sometimes I did avert my eyes, since I don’t have a stomach for blood or needless, and sometimes I just watched his eyelashes flutter and observed how carefully he processed his own pain and helplessness, and I was overjoyed that it was all being captured on film. Many, many orgasms to come, I reminded myself.
Hours passed, too many to count, and Stephen was not necessarily closer to crying, but was valiantly screwing with my head, showing me some big, puppy dog eyes now and then that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, delivering an undeniable ache in my belly that alerted my conscience perhaps I was being unfair to him.
I walked over, finally, to where he was strapped down on what was like a medical table, and the dominatrix was washing her hands nearby. He didn’t know what she was preparing to do, and neither did I, to be honest.
“Do you think you could get me to stop, right now, just by the way you are looking at me?” I asked him.
He wasn’t gagged this time, and he looked remarkably unscathed for someone who’d been violated so relentlessly for a few hours – in sexual ways, in degrading ways, in painful ways.
“I could,” he said to me, “If I thought you needed to stop.”
He said that to me with such cool confidence, it was as if he had been planning that line for hours. For all I knew, he had. Hell, he might have planned it on the plane ride over. For a short moment, I let those words roll through my head a few times, trying to decide if I was angry, or if was manipulating me, or if he was being sweet and solemn.
I turned to the dominatrix, who was putting on latex medical gloves. “I want you to suffocate him,” I told her.
She raised her eyebrows at me, then looked at him, the smirked. “Sure. Let me have them bring in the gear. We have a few options.”
“I don’t care,” I told her. “Do whatever is most…uncomfortable for him. I don’t want him to enjoy it.”
She laughed. “Oh. He won’t. Be right back.”
I turned to him and he watched her walk away.
As soon as she was gone, Stephen was looking at me, studying my expression. He turned his head slightly, getting a better view, and said softly, “Are you really going to be able to go through with that?”
I picked up the gag that was nearby, holding it in my palm, and he looked at it. Smart one, Stephen was, because he figured out quite quickly that obviously what he was saying was getting to me on some level. The guilt level.
“Are you sure about this, Akasha?” he asked me, and added just a slight flavor of sweet innocence in his eyes, of fake fear, perhaps.
I clenched my fists tightly around the straps of the gag, staring at him intensely. “It’s ok,” I said, and gagged him, tightly. He resisted for just a second then stopped, allowing me to plunge the object deep into his mouth. “I’m not even going to be here.”
His eyes searched my face quizzically, and then the dominatrix was back in the room, bringing a rolling cart of some sort with various pieces of equipment on it, some of them leather or rubber, some clear plastic, some I don’t even know – they were just devices.
I leaned close to Stephen’s face to look at his eyes. “I’m. Not. Going. To. Be. Here.”
He blinked at me, and for a brief second looked past me at the busy dominatrix, who seemed quite happy to be rummaging through the darkest of dangerous gear.
I reached up and traced a finger down his forehead, over his nose. “This is my last look at your pretty, content, smug face. Next time I see you, I can assure you, you will be a new Stephen. Very…” I looked for the right words. “Broken. If that’s the right word.”
“You aren’t going to watch?” the dominatrix asked me.
“He knows if I do, I will make you stop,” I told her. “He is smart like that. So I’m going to leave. No one will stop you. You just do what you need to do. It’s all on tape, I can watch it later. Over and over again. Make sure it’s long. Deliberate. Relentless. Terrifying. Cruel. “ I instructed. “Shock me.”
For the first time, a slight look of concern came over Stephen’s face. I could tell he was thinking this one through. He had never thought of this possibility.
She chuckled. “I have just the right equipment. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“Goodbye, sweet prince.” I told him. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, and he held eye contact until I turned to walk away.
The last thing I heard, before I closed the door, was her soft, sinister chuckling and the rolling of the gear toward the table.
**
I sat in a small chair outside the closed door. It felt like waiting outside the doctor’s office for a loved one’s prognosis. The time seemed to move slow, but I closed my eyes and let my own imagination take over. Clearly, the images on the video would be something spectacular, and surely, if I were there, I’d probably stop her long before he’d been pushed to his limits. We both knew that.
Was she reckless? Perhaps. But it was a risk I was willing to take in the heat of the moment. I had no idea how or what she would be doing to him, and he had no way to stop her.
I could hear very little from the room. Some creaking. Her voice. Long silence. What might have been a whimper; who knows, I closed my eyes, thinking that the tape would give me all the answers soon enough.
A half hour turned into 45 minutes, then to an hour. The door opened, and she peered outside. “Akasha,” she said to me. “You should come back in now.”
She looked – well, tired. But pleased. She looked like she’d had a bit of a workout, and I stood to enter the room coolly, carefully, not quite sure what to expect.
Stephen wasn’t on the table any longer, he was on the ground, on his knees, his wrists restrained behind his back, breathing hard, covered in sweat. I’d swear she’d dumped a bucket of water over him – maybe she had, for effect. Only the video tape would tell.
When she went around behind him to pull his head up by a fistful of hair, she yanked him nearly off balance and he wavered, let out his breath again with a groan and looked at me, exhausted.
“Did he cry?” I asked her, walking closer to investigate.
He was breathing hard through clenched teeth now, saying, “No,” just as she said, “No.”
“I was saving that for you,” she smiled, pleased with herself. “You’ll find him much more pliable now.”
“Was he scared?” I asked, crouching down to look at his face, weary, sweet. His eyelashes were wet with sweat, he looked like he’d been boxing. He struggled to maintain eye contact. He looked uncharacteristically self conscious.
“He was terrified,” she said proudly. “A lot of begging. Very good begging. Didn’t you hear him? He was loud.”
My skin felt flushed; the wave was similar to orgasm, that good, even better. My head spun images – Stephen begging, my Stephen – a lot of begging? I wanted to go straight to the tape – surely she was exaggerating.
He wet his lips with his tongue and blinked slowly at me, deliberately, and I could see his body still shaking, barely. He was just coming out of it, really. He swallowed hard and she let go of his hair, and he fell forward, forehead to the floor, breathing hard, still. She walked away to get something.
I nudged my boot under his nose and he didn’t move as I watched his back heaving, shuddering. His wrist were in handcuffs, two tight fists.
The dominatrix returned, directing a dog bowl with her boot on the floor. Pushing it toward him. She had a leash in her head. She reached down and attached it to the D-ring on the leather collar around his neck. Then, a boot deliberately to his back, while pulling back up on the lead. “Drink it,” she ordered.
He resisted for a second and she dug her boot heel into his back. Such ruthless, cruel treatment, so sudden, I observed, but so appropriately hot. Stephen obeyed, leaning forward and lifting his head, dropping it forward into the bowl, almost graciously, splashing about to drink.
“A little bit of electricity,” she smiled at me. “A properly timed caning,” she added, as if sharing a secret recipe, “And unforgiving breath control.”
There was a pause. The water was nearly gone, splashed away, some consumed, and he was finally still, composure coming back. She took him by a fistful of hair again and wrenched his head back, spraying water everywhere.
“You ready to go again?” the dominatrix asked Stephen. “You want her to see you beg like a big coward?”
“No,” he gritted through clenched teeth, not looking at me.
“It’s ok Stephen,” I said, reaching up and putting my hand to his face. “We have all night. I’m not in any hurry. I know you must be starving, and tired, and sore.”
He just looked at me. Weary.
“You know another shift of sadists comes on in a half hour,” I told him. “We can just keep going. All night long. Until you cry.”
“I can make him cry,” she said, walking away. It was deliberate, cool matter of fact. Clearly, she wanted the tip, and her shift was ending soon. She didn’t want the next dominatrix walking off with her five hundred dollar tip.
“Please,” he whispered to me. “I just need….a break. That’s all.”
“Am I going to like what I see on the tape?” I asked him.
“Watch it,” he said softly, blinking at me. It was a look I had not seen from him before. Shame. Just a little. “I tried..” he said, slowly, “To look at the camera.”
I inhaled for a second, looked away to focus then looked back at him.
“Are you going to cry, now, Stephen?” I asked him. When I finally looked back at him he was looking up, past me, at the dominatrix as she approached. At something in her hand.
“Just watch the tape,” he whispered. “Please.”
I stood up and left him there on the floor, left him there for the dominatrix to collect and begin with again. Standing over the tripod, I investigated the camera, look at the controls for a moment and found the playback button, then rewound it and took it off the tripod, bringing it to my comfortable chair to watch the playback on the little screen.
The dominatrix, meanwhile, was rough housing him into a heavier set of restraints and he winced, whimpered and groaned at the treatment, but said nothing.
I can’t reveal exactly what was on the tape, but I couldn’t really watch all of it, closely, at least not the first time. And not with the distraction of him watching me watching him, while a dominatrix started in on him all over again.
I did watch what I could, though, then hit stop and took the tape, placing it safely in my purse.
She had him face down, holding him in position, waiting for me. “You ready to see him cry?” she asked me.
I didn’t say anything at first, waiting to see if Stephen would interject something.
“Yes,” I finally said. “I’m ready.”
When she pulled him up to face me, his eyes were shut tight. She had thirty minutes left in her shift, and had planned it perfectly.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “It’s just something I need to do.”
Stephen opened his eyes and looked at me. “It’s ok,” he said softly. “I know.”
What he didn’t know, however, was that I’d had the dungeon booked for the entire next day.
And what was in store for him in San Francisco, under water.
