“Please, Mistress Sylvie,” Owen interrupted, startled at the intensity of his need. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
Mistress Sylvie stepped back, her look skeptical. “Will you? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mistress Sylvie.”
Her lips lifted in a small triumphant smile. “All right, then. Show me. Put your hands behind your head, locking your fingers at your neck. You will look straight ahead, no matter what I do to you. You will not move or resist me in any way. Can you do that, Owen?”
“Yes, Mistress Sylvie.” Owen moved his arms, relieved at the change in position. She drew her fingertips lightly over his biceps and underarms. Owen realized he was clenching his jaw in his effort to stay still. He hated being tickled, but at the same time found himself deeply aroused and excited by her actions and his position. Somehow he managed not to move, save for the rise and fall of his chest and the twitching of his throbbing cock.
“Much better,” Mistress Sylvie said softly, and Owen found himself smiling, pleased by her praise.
She moved behind him and he felt her cupping his ass cheeks through the cotton of his shorts. “Have you ever been spanked, Owen?”
“No, Mistress Sylvie.” Owen’s skin tingled in anticipation of the hard slap of her palm, but instead she moved again to stand in front of him. She pressed her hands against his chest, the palms flat against his nipples.
“Have you ever been tied down?”
“No, Mistress Sylvie.” There had been some bondage play with a girlfriend in college, but he’d been the one using the rope, not daring to admit his fantasies back then.
Mistress Sylvie slipped the tip of one finger beneath the elastic at the waist of his boxers. “Have you ever been whipped, Owen? Have you ever felt the sharp, sweet sting of the lash?”
Mistress Sylvie stared deep into Owen’s eyes, her lips lifting in a slow smile that made him forget how to breathe. “No, Mistress Sylvie,” he finally managed, though it only came out as a whisper. He wanted to look away but found himself unable to wrench his gaze from hers. He could feel her power, and his own powerlessness to resist it.
“Do you like pain, Owen? Erotic pain?”
“I don’t really know, Mistress Sylvie,” he answered honestly, though his cock was hard as steel. “I want to find out. I know that for sure. I—think about it. I fantasize about it.”
“Tell me more,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. “Tell me your darkest fantasy. Hold nothing back.”
Owen’s heart lurched into overdrive. “I’ve never told anyone—”
“But you will tell me,” she interrupted. It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and he nodded slowly in agreement.
“Yes, Mistress Sylvie. I will tell you.”
“Go on,” she said, her voice a sultry purr. She took a step back, looking pointedly at his crotch. Owen’s cock was pulsing. His balls ached and his heart was galloping like a racehorse in his chest.
“I’m standing in a room,” he began nervously. “I’m naked and my arms are bound over my head, cuffed into chains that hang from the ceiling.” Owen closed his eyes, letting the well-worn movie spool on its mental reel. Only now, instead of a faceless woman standing behind him, he saw Mistress Sylvie, a long, cruel whip in her hand. “There’s a woman,” he continued, his eyes still closed. “She’s got a whip. A single tail.” Though he felt his face heating, Owen forced himself to continue. “She uses it. On me. My back, my ass. She’s relentless, whipping me until I beg for mercy, but she shows none. She strikes me over and over. She doesn’t stop until—until I…” Owen trailed off, embarrassed. Sweat had beaded above his lips and pricked at his arm pits.
“Until you come,” Mistress Sylvie supplied.
Owen opened his eyes in surprise, his face scalding, though his cock felt like it was going to explode if she so much as touched him. “Yes,” he admitted. “How did you know?”
“How would I not know?” She smiled, her eyes sparking with a fire that turned them to pure emerald green. She placed her hand over his erection and Owen groaned. “I know because we are two sides of a coin, Owen. It’s what I want, but more importantly, it’s what you need. Am I correct?”
Owen’s mouth had gone dry. He was at once relieved and disappointed when she took her hand from his shorts and stepped back. He licked his lips and tried to swallow. If this was just the interview, what in god’s name were the sessions going to be like?
“Yes, Mistress Sylvie,” he finally managed, the words pulled from a hidden place that was filled with yearning. “It’s what I need.”
Chapter 2
Owen pressed the doorbell, giving his name when asked through the intercom speaker. The door was once again opened by Isabel, dressed in another tailored suit. This one had a plunging neckline, and no evidence of a blouse beneath the jacket. Owen tried not to stare at the woman’s cleavage, but failed.
“Good afternoon,” she said, a small smile lifting one corner of her mouth. She stepped back, allowing Owen to enter. “Your session is for one hour.” She looked pointedly at the silver tray that was set on a high narrow table just inside the door. Owen had been advised he was to pay in advance for the time booked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope that contained the agreed-upon fee, dropping it onto the tray.
He followed Isabel up the stairs, his heart already beginning a thump of anticipation. He’d changed before he left the office, and felt more comfortable in jeans and a pale gray button-down shirt of light Indian cotton, the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Isabel knocked softly against the door at the top of the stairs and stepped back. “Come in,” Mistress Sylvie said from the other side of the door.
Isabel turned the knob and pushed the door open. She nodded toward Owen and as he walked into the room, she pulled the door closed.
The space was much larger than the office he’d been in the week before. This room was clearly where Mistress Sylvie conducted her sessions. The walls were the same cream color as the office, the floors of dark, polished hardwood. But there the similarities stopped.
BDSM equipment lined one wall, including a whipping post, a St. Andrew’s cross, a spanking bench and a bondage table. Along a second wall was a large rack containing all manner of whips, floggers, crops and canes. Chains hung from thick beams that bisected the ceiling, and a table set beneath a curtained window had several sets of leather and metal cuffs, along with clips, fishing weights, and all sorts of wicked-looking clamps, and other toys Owen had no name for. All this Owen absorbed in an instant, before his eye was drawn to Mistress Sylvie.
She looked even more striking than the first time he’d seen her, her long, copper hair waving over her shoulders, her sea-green eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes, her lips painted ruby red. She was again wearing black, but this time it was leather, a form-fitting bustier that emphasized the curve of her breasts, and low-riding pants that looked as if they’d been painted onto her long, shapely legs. A strip of smooth skin was exposed just above her hips.
She stood in front of a square of thick carpet in the center of the room, her hands on her hips, her stiletto heels planted wide. “Come in, Owen. I want you to strip naked and kneel here on the carpet. Every time you come to me, you will do that at once, without being told. You may leave your clothes on that table.” She pointed toward a small table that stood just inside the door. Her tone was matter-of-fact and she was clearly used to being obeyed.
Owen hesitated, though he knew he was expected to be naked for the session. Mistress Sylvie lifted one eyebrow and her eyes widened slightly, her expression one of barely contained patience. Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, Owen forced himself past his initial hesitation and unbuttoned his shirt, relieved his fingers were steady.
He pulled off his shirt and reached for his belt buckle, while slipping out of his loafers at the same time. When he was completely naked he piled his clothing on the table and faced Mistress Sylvie, fighting a sudden urge to cover his geni
tals.
She pointed toward the square of carpet and Owen moved toward it, lowering himself to his knees, not sure what to do with his hands. As if reading his mind, Mistress Sylvie ordered, “Hands behind your back.”
Owen obeyed, feeling very vulnerable at this imposing woman’s feet. He wasn’t sure where to look either. Was it a sign of disrespect to look directly at her while she spoke? Or was he expected to? What were the rules? What was the protocol? Did it even matter since all this was on his dime?
Mistress Sylvie solved his dilemma by reaching down and cradling Owen’s chin in her hand, forcing him to look up at her. She was staring down at him with an intense gaze. Owen almost fancied he could see bits of green fire sparking in the sea of her eyes. Her lips were full and lush, like ripe strawberries he wanted to taste. Even as this thought occurred to him, he knew it would never happen. Pro Dommes were not in the habit of kissing their clients, of that he was certain.
“Today will be an introduction—an exploration. For this session we will focus on sensation. The feel of being restrained, the sting of leather.” She let go of his chin and stepped back. “Stand up. I want to look at you.”
Owen stood, again resisting the urge to cover his cock and balls with his hands. Mistress Sylvie moved her eyes slowly over his body, her gaze frankly appraising. Owen wondered if she liked what she saw. Once upon a time he would have asked the question aloud. He knew better now and held his tongue.
Mistress Sylvie stroked her chin in contemplation, finally saying, “I think we’ll start with the cross. Come along.” She strode toward the large wooden cross that had been bolted into the wall. It was painted a shiny black and large O-rings were embedded at varying heights along the sides of the X.
Mistress Sylvie directed Owen to stand with his back against the cross. “I want you facing me so I can be sure you’re paying proper attention,” she instructed. “Wait here while I select your cuffs.”
Owen leaned against the cool, smooth wood of the cross while Mistress Sylvie went to the table of toys. She returned with two sets of leather cuffs wrapped in clear plastic. “These should fit you,” she said, slipping the first set from their protective sleeves. “Hold out your wrists.”
Owen did as he was told, aware there was no going back now, not that he wanted to. “These cuffs will be yours and yours alone,” Mistress Sylvie said. She wrapped the first cuff around his right wrist and pressed the small metal D-ring through the second of four slits cut into the leather. She attached one end of a double-sided clip to the D-ring to keep the cuff in place, and then did the same thing with the second cuff on his left wrist.
She nodded in approval as she looked at his cuffed wrists before sweeping his naked body with her penetrating gaze. “That suits you, Owen. Black leather and nothing else.” Her smile was cruel, her eyes glittering. “Extend your arms high against the cross,” she ordered, and again Owen did as he was told, aware his cock was rising as well. Standing on tiptoe, Mistress Sylvie reached up and clipped Owen’s cuffed wrists into place against the top O-rings on either side of the cross, stretching his arms taut. Owen bit his lip to keep the moan of pure lust that threatened to erupt from being audible.
“Lift your foot and place it on my knee,” Mistress Sylvie ordered, the second pair of cuffs now out of their plastic sleeve.
“Yes, Mistress.”
Mistress Sylvie wrapped a cuff around each ankle and then directed Owen to spread his legs against either side of the cross. Kneeling, she clipped the ankle cuffs into place, one at a time. His cock was throbbing by the time she was done shackling his ankles to the base of the cross.
Standing again, Mistress Sylvie leaned close to Owen, so close he could smell her perfume, something spicy and exotic. He was keenly aware of his nakedness as her leather-covered breasts brushed against his bare chest. She put her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Are you ready to suffer for me, slave Owen?”
An involuntary shudder moved through Owen’s frame. “Yes, Mistress Sylvie ,” he said, though it came out only as a whisper.
Mistress Sylvie stepped away, this time going to the whip rack, from which she extracted a long-handled riding crop dyed the same color as her ruby-painted lips. Returning to Owen, she lifted the crop as if to strike him and he winced involuntarily, his heart suddenly leaping into his throat.
But instead of smacking him with the leather flap, she drew it teasingly over his bare chest, dragging it down his torso and stopping just above his bobbing cock. “I’m going to begin with the crop. I will start lightly and keep going while I learn about your body and your reactions. If at any point the pain becomes too much or you just need me to slow down, or even stop, you tell me, okay?”
“You mean like a safeword?”
Mistress Sylvie nodded. “I don’t really go in for what you Americans call the safeword, because in my experience, more often than not when one is really at the point where a safeword is needed, one doesn’t always have the presence of mind to recall pickle or lemon drop or whatever other cute little term one has chosen.” She began to tap his skin lightly with the crop, moving it over his chest and abdomen in a steady smacking rhythm.
“I should tell you,” she continued, shifting her focus to his thighs, “it’s very rare that anyone gets to that point with me in a session where they feel the need of a safeword, because I pay attention. I’m as aware of what you’re experiencing as you are, in some cases even more aware, because I don’t have the fog of lust or endorphins confusing the issue.”
She drew the leather slapper in a circle around Owen’s erect shaft and lightly tapped his balls, making him jerk in his restraints. “So, as I was saying…” Mistress Sylvie smacked the side of his cock and again Owen jerked, drawing a sudden sharp breath. “You don’t need a specific word. You just talk to me, okay? And if you aren’t in a position to speak, open and close your hand, like this.” She demonstrated, closing her free hand into a fist and then opening it again. “Is that clear, slave Owen?”
Just as he started to say, “Yes, Mistress,” she struck him suddenly, a sharp sting to his left nipple. “Ah!” he ended up shouting instead, as much from surprise as pain. She struck his right nipple even harder and Owen bit his lip to keep from shouting a second time.
“I asked a question…” Mistress Sylvie continued to smack him with the crop while Owen struggled to catch his breath.
“Yes, Mistress Sylvie. Yes!”
“You feel the pain, and it hurts, and yet it’s perfect, is it not? It’s as if your skin has been asleep, and now suddenly it’s awake, wildly awake, every nerve tuned and sharpened, waiting to be played like a musical instrument. You’ve been silent all this time, your whole life, waiting to be taught how to sing your pleasure and your pain.”
Mistress Sylvie’s voice was lilting, her accent adding music to the poetic words, but beneath the poetry was a truth that resonated with something deep inside Owen’s soul.
Yes, he’d been waiting, all his life, for this—precisely this.
Again, do it again.
The Domme complied with his silent wish, cropping every inch of available skin, though she avoided his bobbing cock and aching balls. The cropping hurt, and yet it didn’t. Or rather, it hurt, but the pain wasn’t anything like stubbing your toe or bumping your head. There was a fierce sweetness to the pain, a pleasure so sharp and strong it took his breath away.
“Is it good, Owen? Is it what you hoped for? What you dreamed of?” Mistress Sylvie’s voice was a low, sensual purr.
“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered devouring with his eyes the beautiful imperious woman standing before him, eyes flashing, hair flying as she cropped him. “God, yes.”
A part of him wanted to be let down from the cross. He wanted to push Sylvie Dubois to her knees and thrust his rigid shaft deep into her throat. He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss that luscious mouth. Mentally he shook his head at these thoughts. They were not lovers. She was being paid to do this, and there were bounda
ries neither would cross.
Owen closed his eyes, letting the sensation of stinging leather mingle with the thrill of the cuffs holding him fast against the smooth wood. He was naked and fully restrained, at the mercy of an incredibly sexy woman who didn’t question his need for this. On the contrary, she understood completely.
“I’m going to increase the intensity now, slave Owen. Are you ready for that?”
Owen swallowed and nodded, hastily adding, “Yes, Mistress,” when she started to frown.
“Yes, you are,” she pronounced. “And so—” Without warning, Mistress Sylvie smacked the head of Owen’s cock with the crop.
“Ah!” Owen shouted, as pain exploded through his nerve endings. He could have said stop. He could have said, enough! But Owen said nothing more. He felt sweat beading along his forehead and upper lip. He was clenching his hands into fists and his heart was going mad in his chest.
“Good boy,” Mistress Sylvie murmured, leaning close, the intoxicating scent of her perfume again reaching his nostrils. She brushed her lips over his cheek, the movement so light and quick that he wondered if he’d only imagined it.
Stepping back, she began to smack his inner thighs with sharp, stinging blows. “Slow your breathing,” she said, though she didn’t stop hitting him. The crop moved past his rigid shaft, landing instead on his stomach. “Take in a breath and exhale it slowly.” Owen tried to obey, drawing the air into lungs that felt constricted by his wildly beating heart.
“That’s better. In…and out. In…and out. Yes.” The flat of the crop struck his nipple again, even harder than before. Owen winced. His balls felt tight and he could feel sweat rolling down his sides. He expelled air in a long, shuddering breath and was suddenly aware his body was shaking.
Mistress Sylvie set the crop down for a moment and drew her hands softly over Owen’s torso. “Shh,” she murmured as she stroked him, drawing light circles with her fingers over his heated, stinging skin. “You can do this. I know you can.”
The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey Page 2
