She turned her hand over, reaching for his and giving a brief squeeze before finally answering his question. “For public demonstrations I was often blindfolded before we left the house, occasionally my hearing was blocked, too. Sometimes I had no idea where we were. If you researched the practice of using hooks in the body for suspension, you know it was historically a Native American ritual and they fasted for days beforehand. Garnet had withheld all food, so I was in the same type of meditative state. I remember the pain and euphoria, but almost as if it were a dream. I was so far into subspace, or... I don't know, another kind of space—more a mystical experience than a sexual one. He didn't often go for spiritual over carnal but when he did, he managed a darn good job of it."
Zach breathed out, as if he'd been holding it while she talked. “So, when I said I might like to micromanage a few days here and there, I was describing the relationship the two of you had?"
Dana shook her head. “Not exactly. There was no power dynamic during our everyday lives. He didn't demand sex or a blowjob just anytime, and we scheduled scenes beforehand to clear both of our calendars for a set number of days. We had quickie ones too—where he'd ask at six o'clock if I wanted to go into a scene that'd end at five the next morning—but if I said no, it didn't happen. Or, if I'd brought work home, I might tell him I could be ready to play at nine."
Through talking about herself, she asked, “What about you? I know a little since I've seen some of your toys; I saw a TENS unit but no straight electricity, which surprised me considering what you do for a living. There were floggers, crops, canes, paddles, clamps, clothespins, and probably a mile of various kinds of rope. What have you done? What's your most extreme?"
"Never anything that brought blood on purpose. No needles, hooks, or knives; and I know you've done all three. Most of my pain involves impact play, clamps on sensitive areas, fisting, and uncomfortable positions. My most exotic is probably electricity—I keep the equipment in my shop."
He took a sip of wine as he seemed to consider his next words. “I'm more about control than pain. Bethany wasn't allowed on furniture without an invitation. Even amongst vanilla people, I'd ask her to have a seat, or pat the spot beside me, or pull her down with me as I sat. When she asked for permission at home I usually gave consent—the rule wasn't there to keep her on the floor, but because she needed constant reminders of her status throughout the day in order to feel secure."
Dana's heart broke for him when he closed his eyes, grief shadowing his face as he remembered. She couldn't reach his hand so she caressed his leg with her foot. His gaze met hers, his smile a sad one, but he pulled himself together and continued.
"She sat at a party without permission once and her punishment lasted forty-eight hours. She spent the night hanging vertically in her sleepsack, and the next morning I strapped her onto one of those ugly metal and plastic toilet seats they put beside your bed when you can't walk. I tied her legs and arms to the chair, and used a shibari harness to hold her torso in place."
His eyes were inquisitive and Dana hoped her face looked interested and not judgmental. He nodded and said, “I cleaned her out with an enema first so there was only urine in the bucket, and I emptied it right away. This wasn't about being gross but rather a way to make her sit for twelve hours. She was also in a posture collar which kept her from looking around and assisted with short naps."
He paused to take a bite and she said, “I suppose it proves how demented I am that I recognize the posture collar was a kindness and not a torment."
"Not many understand the finer points—I appreciate that you do. However, this was only the first stage of the lesson; I gave her another enema that night, and she slept vertical in her sleep sack again. The next morning I put her on the treadmill, keeping it on the slowest settings, but constant—with no stopping allowed. She'd walk fifty minutes, followed by a five-minute spanking at the top of the hour, and five minutes in the yard for a potty break, before going back on the treadmill for fifty minutes until time for her next paddling. I either put in or took out the plug at each break so she had an hour with, then without. It worked out to around nine hours of this until we reached the time of day the original infraction had taken place, and her punishment ended after a final ten minutes over my knee."
Dana's body wanted to squirm and she worked to sit still. She'd have used her hand to get off if she could've figured out how to do it discreetly—it wouldn't have taken more than a few seconds. “What did you spank her with?"
"I mixed it up—leather, maple, and Lexan paddles; bath brush; wooden spoon. The last was with a tawse but she was already so tender I didn't lay into her very hard, just enough so it was the worst of the ordeal, as I knew she'd need a final cry to feel cleansed of her misdeed. She'd had a total of fifty-five minutes of spanking in one day, spread out so the endorphins didn't have time to kick in, and were gone before the next started. For some, just the point of sitting for a day and then not sitting for a day would've been sufficient. She needed more though, so I gave it to her. It worked; she never sat on furniture without permission again."
Dana was moved by the care he'd taken to make the punishment fit the crime and by how much he'd loved his wife, to spend the time and energy correcting her. Some masters might blow this kind of thing off, making the submissive feel ignored, but Zach had made sure she knew their relationship mattered. He'd given her the gift of knowing this rule wasn't negotiable. Dana was curious about the details and her libido demanded she hear more. “When did she eat?"
"She didn't. She got Ensure, water, and daily vitamins. A liquid diet hung in a clean enema bag above her head with a tube going to her mouth while she was on the seat, and again as she walked on the treadmill. It had one of those biteable nozzles bike riders use."
Dana was so horny she couldn't think straight. She hadn't thought she'd ever submit again, but for this man she might consider getting back on her knees. Zach interrupted her reflections. “You were turned on by my coffee table cage. Can you tell me why it appeals to you?"
She swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup as she organized her thoughts. “When I was caged, I was put away. Stored. I didn't learn until I was preparing the house for sale that he'd installed a night vision camera and must have kept an eye on me. I can't explain why, but the idea of being imprisoned in the open, part of the furniture, so I'd be seen while put away—stored as art instead of warehoused and forgotten. I now know he was watching me, but I didn't realize it at the time. So, yeah, your cage—in full view of the room—was a huge turn-on."
"Is a huge turn-on."
She sighed and looked down, her face going hot as she said, “Yeah."
Zach walked Dana across the parking area and leaned her against the passenger door, trapping her. She'd had several first kisses in the past year and this wasn't like any of them. It started strong and got stronger—the warmth of his lips on hers, his hot breath on her cheek, his tongue sweeping her mouth, one hand firm on the back of her head, the other gently holding her left arm in place. Instinct made her want to touch him but his hands requested she stay put, so she held still and submitted.
She was breathless when he finally pulled back, his eyes meeting hers with a hunger that made her blood boil; made her want more than a kiss.
He brushed his fingers across her cheek, the light stroke incongruous with the intensity of the moment. “I'd like to take you home tonight. No power dynamic, no safewords needed because if you tell me to stop, I will. I want to drip hot wax on you until you're encased in it, and then flog it from your body and either make love to you or fuck you—depending on where the energy takes us."
Dana's mouth said, “Okay,” before her brain had a chance to weigh in.
He smiled, gave her a few seconds, and said, “You sure? Was that a heat of the moment okay?"
Was she so obvious to him? She felt a shy smile form and laughed to cover it. “Yes, it was, but it's my final answer, for the wax and flogging anyway—not certain about the f
ucking part. I've never had sex on a first date, but this feels like more."
He stroked her jawline, touched the end of his nose to hers, and pulled back a few inches. “That's because it is. If you aren't comfortable having sex yet, we'll wait. No pressure."
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Chapter Four
* * * *
The playroom door was already open, and Zach walked her straight in, gently pushing her against a padded portion of the wall, using his body to make escape impossible. He leaned down, small kisses, his lips on hers with just the barest pressure behind them. When she was ready to melt again he pulled back. “You may want to visit the restroom while I'm setting up."
When Dana returned, Zach had taken his suit jacket off and was busy with preparations. Clear plastic peeked out from under a tan sheet on the bondage table. A wheeled cart held two identical crock-pots, wax shavings, a few pillar candles, and a long handled lighter. Yeah, he'd done this before.
He glanced up as she stepped towards him, looked back at the crock-pots, and dumped some wax in both. “I need ice and we'll be set. I'm a little off my game here—ordinarily I'd tell you to strip and get on the table, but that's not the dynamic tonight. Come with me to the kitchen, please?"
She didn't think he'd meant it as a complaint, but wasn't sure. He put his arm around her as they walked through the house, and she asked, “Are you really okay with this? Is it too weird to do this without power exchange? Am I wanting to have my cake and eat it, too?"
Zach filled a glass with ice and plunked it into the stainless mixing bowl several times. “No, it's fine. I think this is a healthy way for us to begin. The wax will let me easily switch sensations, go from pleasure to pain as I learn your body. I promise you I'm looking forward to this."
Dana was silent as they walked back, a little nervous and a lot excited—she remembered the feel of the hot wax, and her skin itched for it.
The ice glittered in the spotlight over the cart, and life went into slow motion as he gently turned her around. “I assume this long zipper makes unwrapping you fairly simple. I love this dress, by the way."
Her heart fluttered as his hand dragged the zipper down, drawing out the anticipation, the slow vibrations making her want to squirm. Cool air kissed her lower back, warm hands pushed the straps down her arms, and the fabric slithered down her body. He stopped it as the opening brushed her knees, and asked her to step out.
The dress had a built in bra, so she was standing before him in a thin silky thong and strappy heels. He moved his body behind hers and wrapped his arms around her, his shirt silky smooth as it caressed her back. With her shoes on, he was only about three inches taller, and she nestled easily into his front, his hard cock pressed into her right ass cheek as his hands trailed from shoulders to wrists.
"I know we said no safewords tonight, but I need you to ignore me if I say no or it's too much, because I think I'll probably say those things even if I'm capable of taking more. I mean, pay attention to the fact you've made me babble, but I'll say stop if I want you to."
One of his hands moved from her wrist to her stomach before sliding up her right breast, his fingers surrounding the base with firm pressure. Holding. Possessing. Both nipples compressed to little rocks at the end of her small breasts.
"That converts the word stop into a safeword. If I'm to disregard a no then we need an actual safeword, and I think it should be something neither of us have used. How about davenport."
"Davenport? How'd you come up with that?” She turned to the side; saw crystal clear blue eyes looking at her, smiling.
"When the delivery guy asked where you wanted the davenport, you answered him like it was an everyday word. I'd never heard the term before, had to look it up. It's just another term for sofa—who knew?” He shook his head, relaxed his arms so she could turn and face him. “You did. We're not likely to use it in conversation, and it reminds me of how we got to know each other."
"Well, okay— davenport it is. What about a signal to slow down—maybe ottoman?” she said, remembering a discussion they'd had about her trying to fancify his new footstool.
He chuckled. “Perfect. Of course, if you happen to need one in a scene you'll be forced to call it a footstool. Let's get your shoes off."
He turned her and easily lifted, gently placing her on the large padded bondage table. As he removed each shoe he gave her a foot massage, starting at the back of her heels and methodically working his way to her toes. His fingers were exquisite as they worked the muscles, bones, and tendons—alternating between pleasure and pain. His strong hands soothed and comforted, and when he found a tender spot he pushed and held while he talked to her about breathing through the soreness until she acquiesced and the area relaxed, the tension flowing out.
When he finally stopped he put an arm under her knees and another at her back, pivoting her sideways and backwards, so she was supine on the table before she realized it.
His long fingers unbuttoned his shirt, and he walked it and her dress to hooks near the door. He'd already removed shoes and socks, so when he stepped out of his pants he was in a loose pair of silk boxers, and nothing else. Blond hair framed a well-tanned body with strong muscular legs, solid arms, and a flat stomach without a defined six-pack —— the physique of someone who's active without making it an obsession.
Dana could tell by the look on his face she was about to lose the thong, and sure enough, as soon as he reached her he began pulling it down. Lucky for her, she'd shaved everything smooth; otherwise the wax would've been a bitch when it came off. He slid the scrap of fabric over her feet before massaging her thighs—fingers approaching her pussy without touching. Damn, he was going to drive her mad.
She kept her legs flat, though she wanted to bend her knees and push her pelvis up to give him easier access. Garnet had turned her into such a slut. No. Garnet wasn't here today. This was her and Zach, and there was no space for ghosts in the room tonight.
Zach walked to the wall and dimmed the lights above her, then illuminated the areas behind her and off to the side—spotlighting his work area and her lower body without shining light in her eyes. The rest of the room faded into the dark, the effect strikingly dramatic, like something from an artistic foreign film.
The flickering of the candles added to the drama of the lighting, giving a surreal feeling, and making her wonder if perhaps she'd fallen asleep, into a dream.
His voice brought her back, forcing her to focus on his face and try to process his words. “I want to restrain you tonight. Do you trust me enough?"
She saw the wrist cuffs in his hand and her insides ignited as her brain was screaming it was a really bad idea. But, was it? She knew him, and his character, and had observed how he treated the people who worked for him —— his cook and housekeeper liked him, the contractors respected him. He'd always been fair with her, and had followed through on all of his obligations.
"Yes, I trust you. With the fire though, the candles, can you use quick releases, just in case?"
He smiled. “One step ahead of you—leash hooks for connectors and I've got a fire extinguisher under the cart."
"Sorry, I shouldn't have doubted you,” she said, embarrassed to have challenged his judgment.
"No, it's fine.” He ran a hand gently across her forehead, soothing her. “Keep double-checking me until you don't need to anymore. I want you to feel safe. No offense taken, and I like knowing you'll speak up about concerns and not just agree to anything."
As the first cuff was buckled onto her wrist, she felt her heart speed up, her breath grow deeper, and her body relax. She hadn't realized how much she missed the safety of restraint; choice taken away, held in place, forced to accept pleasure or pain at another's whim.
Zach checked the fit and reached for a long leather strap, draping it across her chest, just above her breasts. “Sit up for me, your arms at the back of your head, please."
He wrapped it around her torso, laid her down, and co
nnected the ends of the straps to the table. More tie-offs were run between the strap and various points on the table, and all were pulled tight. Testing it, she tried to sit, discovered she couldn't. The width kept it from feeling restrictive, but even minor lateral movement was impossible.
Her wrist cuffs were attached near her waist, with a few inches of give—not enough so she could use her hands, but sufficient to keep them from cramping or falling asleep. She appreciated comfortable bondage, and relaxed at his thoughtfulness.
Next came thigh bands and ankle cuffs. Her knees were directed out and down until they were flat on the table, with the bottoms of her feet touching each other—her legs making a diamond shape.
He quickly used rope to secure her thighs and ankles to multiple anchor points on the table, and when he finished her lower body was held as motionless as her chest. The only movement she had was the three or four inches she could move her hands, and the ability to lift her head.
Her predicament flooded her awareness—naked, expertly bound, waiting for hot wax to be poured on her wide-open delicate bits—and a switch flipped inside of her as her submissive headspace took over. She relaxed into the comfortable feeling, sank into it.
Her eyes flew open as the control she'd lived with for two years slid out of reach and she pulled at her wrists as slivers of panic pushed into her heart —— the intensity of her feelings suddenly overwhelming, and she yanked her arms, uselessly tried to jerk her feet, strained her abdominal muscles in futility, trying to sit up.
A touch on her shoulder startled her into stillness as the heat of his hand anchored and calmed her. Zach kept the contact firm, a stable anchor, and she let her gaze travel up to his pale blue eyes, radiating warmth and kindness, reassuring her she was safe.
He stroked slowly down her arm, soothing her even as she recognized his actions as those of a trainer calming a spooked horse. The warmth of his palm returned to her shoulder, and her upper back relaxed. His other hand moved to the center of her breastbone and caressed its way to her belly button before lifting, and her ab muscles softened. Her eyelids drifted closed as she took a deep breath, letting the tension flow out with the air in her lungs.
Safeword: Davenport Page 3
