Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

He said, “A marriage isn’t a marriage unless both people choose it freely. If only one of them chooses, then neither is free. I want freedom for us both.”

  The word “freedom” had such a fine, lofty sound. Wasn’t it what all the world’s downtrodden masses desired? Wasn’t the yearning for it deeply rooted in every American soul? Surely there was something horribly wrong with me.

  “I don’t want to choose,” I said. “I don’t want to be free.”

  We talked a long time, but there was no way to bridge the gulf between us—maybe it had always been there, and I’d willfully ignored it. In the end we had to agree that we had no future together. I paid my half of the check and walked back to campus with him, feeling numb. I went up to his room just long enough to gather up the little stuff I had there. He gave me all our sex toys.

  I went back to my dorm room, flung myself on my bed, and cried and cried.

  Chapter 2. Play party

  He’s left my legs frogtied, but cuffed my wrists behind me. My torso’s elaborately bound—I’m hanging from the ceiling, body flat, face down about three feet above the floor. My wrists are resting between my ass cheeks, hands so close to my pussy. I stretch my fingers but can’t reach. If only I could touch my clitoris!

  “Master, please,” I whisper, but I know it’s useless. He’ll give me an orgasm when he wants me to have it, not when I want it.

  He circles me slowly, taking time to admire his work, watch me squirm, or maybe think about how best to please himself. He pauses in front of me, and I raise my head to look at him. He meets my gaze for a few seconds, then seems to come to a decision. He strides over to a cabinet behind me, opens it, and takes out something I can’t see.

  Soon I feel a cool, hard dildo enter my vagina. My pussy feels a little tingly. Gradually the sensation becomes more definite, and within a minute the tingling has turned to a heavy thrumming, a pleasure so intense it’s nearly pain. I close my eyes and enjoy it. Surely he’ll let me come soon . . .

  * * *

  Kevin said, “You do what you would after any breakup. You take some time to heal and evaluate, and then you look for a new relationship.”

  We were sitting in a Village coffee shop. Telling my story had made me cry again.

  He laid a hand on mine and said, “This was always going to happen, you know. Andrew was a forceful personality, but he wasn’t a Dom, not really. He could learn the moves and have fun playing Master, but it was never more than a game to him. It was only a matter of time before he got tired of it. You’re the real thing, though. Like me. I’ve always sensed it in you.”

  I sighed and said, “I think maybe I’ve been looking for a Dom since my first date. I went out with a sort of caveman in high school, then a series of athletes in college, and finally Andrew. Funny thing is, I didn’t expect much from Andrew, but he was the best of them.”

  “It isn’t a violent nature or a strong body that makes you a Dom,” said Kevin, “but an ability to control yourself and others. You need a lot of different talents to do that well—not only the ones you’d expect, but also understanding, empathy, and compassion.”

  I spent the summer between my junior and senior years in New York, waitressing and rooming with friends. I started going to munches with Kevin—sub-only ones at first, since he didn’t think I was ready to cope with Doms hitting on me, and I had to agree. On his advice, I adopted a scene name. I introduced myself as Famula at these affairs—it was a Latin word I’d learned from Andrew, meaning female slave. It didn’t take long to make a number of friends, and soon I was spending more time with them than with my old friends. There’s no BDSM look—not for wearing in public, anyway—but I started to change my appearance, edging towards the emo look that my new friends said suited me.

  Towards the end of summer, two friends, Maddie and Evelyn, both in their thirties and in relationships with Doms, decided they wanted to take me to a mixed munch, an evening affair held in a downtown bar. Many of the people there knew my escorts, but I was a new face, and within minutes we were surrounded by a little crowd of men eager to introduce themselves to me, telling me their real or scene names and offering cards with their email addresses and phone numbers on them. It was flattering to be the center of attention—nothing like this had ever happened to me before—but their obvious hunger was unnerving.

  Evelyn muttered, “New meat.”

  I managed to keep my cool, accept their cards, and deflect their attentions. After five or six men had made their pitches, there was just one left. He’d been hanging back, chatting with some of the couples. He approached me when the coast was clear, smiled warmly, introduced himself as Frederick (not Lord Thor or Painmaster Zog), and welcomed me to the group. People dress conservatively at munches, but still Frederick, in slacks and a light blue shirt with rolled up sleeves, didn’t look much like a kinkster. He was in his mid-thirties, lean and hard, with short sandy hair and a close-cropped beard.

  It’s not easy to make conversation at a BDSM social, since questions about life outside the scene are considered unacceptable prying, and I, at least, am not comfortable discussing the details of my sex life with total strangers. So while people around us were talking about the pros and cons of various whips or the best position for anal sex, I was feeling even more tongue tied than usual.

  Frederick found a conversational opening in my empty wine glass. “Can I refill that for you?” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s white.”

  He said, “They’ve got a terrific Pinot Grigio here—I discovered it just a few days ago. It’s perfect for August.”

  “It sounds lovely,” I said.

  While he was away at the bar, Maddie said, “Do you want us to get lost?”

  “I’ll whip you if you do,” I said.

  “Ooooh,” said Maddie. It’s really hard to threaten a sub.

  Frederick handed me my glass and watched closely as I took a sip.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “You were right,” I said. “It’s perfect for August.”

  He looked pleased. I was pleased that he looked pleased, and a little disgusted with myself for being so pleased.

  He said, “They say you can tell a lot about people from what they’re drinking. Some say that people who prefer white are shy.”

  I was feeling shy just then. “That sounds plausible,” I said.

  “Of course, there’s always an alternative explanation. You might be drinking white because it’s refreshing on a hot night. That would make you a practical sort.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, but now that he mentioned it, it seemed right. “I’m sure that’s it,” I said.

  Evelyn said, “When people don’t drink, that says something about them, too. You don’t have a drink, Frederick.”

  He smiled and said, “I don’t like losing control. I had one glass of wine when I got here, and that’s my limit.”

  Suddenly I felt self-conscious about my second glass. “I guess I must not feel the same way about self-control,” I said.

  “In this group,” he said, “people either like to control or be controlled. Whoever’s in control should be sober.”

  “In that case,” I said, smiling, “I guess I can have a third.”

  He laughed. “I’ll be interested to see if you do. People in the lifestyle, both Doms and subs, are pretty abstemious.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” I said. “I’ll bet they hate us here, taking up all this valuable space and hardly spending any money.”

  “They’re okay with it, as long as we don’t dress up and scare away the tourists.”

  “What do you wear when you dress up?” I asked.

  “A three-piece suit.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was joking, but decided it was safe to laugh.

  “And you?” he asked.

  “A slave doesn’t need an elaborate costume,” I said, “and that’s lucky, because I can’t afford much.”

  “I’d like to see your slave costume s
ometime,” he said.

  I could feel myself blush under his gaze. I wanted to say something clever, but nothing came to mind. I wanted to show him my slave outfit, but decided not to say that.

  Frederick said, “Do you mind if I ask what drew you to the lifestyle?”

  The questions were getting personal, and my face heated up even more. “It’s not kinky sex,” I said. “Ever since I was small I’ve wanted someone to discipline me and . . . make me behave. In college I got interested in slavery, and realized I needed somebody to own me.”

  “You don’t have an owner now?”

  “No—not anymore.”

  “I’ve had subs,” he said, “but never a slave.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  His phone beeped. He took it out of his pants pocket, looked at it, and said, “I have to go. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, and if you’d like to talk some more, I think we’d have a lot to discuss.”

  He drew a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.

  I took it and said, “Thank you.”

  When he was gone, Maddie said, “Whew! He’s hot.”

  “Do you think I should call him?” I asked.

  “Did he give you his email?”

  I looked at the card. His name was Frederick Sullivan, and the card had both a phone number and an email address.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Then you can interview him,” Maddie said. “By email. If you try to interview him in person, you’ll probably find yourself tied up whether you want it or not. And you don’t want him to know your phone number before you decide you can trust him.”

  They helped me come up with a list of questions for Frederick. I opened a new Gmail account and wrote to him, and within a few days I knew a lot about him. He was a partner in a downtown law firm. He’d had four or five subs in relationships lasting about one to five years, and he’d be glad for me to contact any of them. He was unmarried and unattached: his last relationship had ended about a month before I broke up with Andrew. He was open to most kinks, but didn’t insist on any of them. He did insist on being obeyed without question and on being completely in control of all aspects of a sub’s life when she was with him. When she was off on her own she could have more autonomy, though he imposed rules governing dress and behavior even then. He was heterosexual and preferred monogamy, except sometimes at parties, where he always wore condoms. He got tested for HIV annually and would be glad to get another test at any time. He had never married and wasn’t interested in marriage.

  By the time I’d asked all my questions (he didn’t refuse to answer any of them), I liked him better than ever, my only worry being that he might be too good to be true. I was willing to answer his questions once he’d answered mine, but he had fewer than I had, and he avoided prying for personal information. His last question was whether I’d like to attend a play party with him. While at the party I would be his slave, wear things he’d bring for me, and obey all his commands completely. He asked me about my limits, but I couldn’t say much about them because I’d never been pushed to anywhere near my limit in anything. So he settled for telling me that, even though some things might hurt, I would be physically and psychologically unharmed at the end of the evening. Good enough, I thought.

  On the evening of the party, we met at the bar where the munch had been. I was early and ordered a glass of the Pinot Grigio Frederick had introduced me to, but I was too nervous to drink much of it, so I’d had only a sip by the time he arrived, wearing a tan three-piece suit and carrying a gym bag. He’d told me to wear “decent street clothes,” so I had on a simple blouse and jeans. He smiled and said, “You look good tonight,” and the compliment warmed me. “Look out,” I told myself, “this is a dangerous man.” I was already falling under his spell, and I didn’t particularly want to resist.

  It was a private party at some ridiculously posh address on Park Avenue. Frederick showed his invitation to a doorman, and we rode up many floors in a palatial elevator that let us out into a short hallway with just a few doors. Frederick stopped, turned to me, and said, “When we go through the door into the apartment, you’ll be my slave. Is that your understanding?”

  I nodded, struggling to bring my butterflies under control.

  He said, “The party uses the standard safewords: ‘Yellow’ for slowing things down and ‘Red’ for stopping them. If you say ‘Red,’ then the rule is that we leave the party. Do you have a personal safeword?”

  I told him my safeword, and he repeated it to himself.

  He said, “If you use your personal safeword, I’ll stop whatever’s going on and consult you about whether you want to stay or go home.”

  I said, “How do I—”

  But he said, “Everything will become clear once we’re in.” He stepped to one of the doors and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a young woman in a simple black dress, with black hair, deathly pale skin, and dark heavy eye makeup. She checked Frederick’s invitation and led us through a short hallway into a large room. We paused just inside the entrance, and he said to me, in a low voice, “Don’t say a word unless I give you permission.”

  A middle-aged man in a white shirt and black pants came hurrying over to us. “Frederick!” he said. “Thanks so much for coming.”

  “Thanks for inviting me, Daniel,” Master said as they shook hands.

  “And this is your lovely slave!” Daniel said, looking at me.

  “Her name is Famula,” Master said.

  They paid no attention to me after that. I looked around the room while they chatted. There was no conventional furniture, but a scattering of devices that I’d heard of but never seen: a bondage table, a Saint Andrew’s cross, a bondage frame, and various other things. More interesting were the people, who at this early hour were mostly standing around chatting. They ranged from my age up, and their costumes, mostly black and red, were variously revealing, from my Master’s three-piece suit to nothing but tattoos and piercings.

  Here and there I could see slaves, men and women, standing, crouching, or on hands and knees beside their Masters and Mistresses. All wore collars; some had leashes.

  Daniel said, “You and your slave can change in one of the bedrooms, if you like.”

  “Thanks,” said Master, “but this is my costume, for the moment anyway. And as for Famula, I think I’d like to change her here.”

  “Excellent,” said Daniel.

  “Come, Famula,” said Master, and led me about ten feet farther into the room.

  “Turn to face me,” he said, and I did.

  I was aware of people pausing in their conversations to stare at us.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said, and reached for the top button of my blouse.

  At his touch, the room and all the people vanished as everything in me focused on his fingertips, deftly undoing my buttons. With every button I gave myself to him more, and he took more of me. He pushed off my blouse, folded it, and lay it neatly beside his bag. He unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans—my pussy tingled with his fingers so near. He pushed my jeans down and said, “Step out.” He folded the jeans as he had the blouse.

  “Turn,” he said. I did, and he unsnapped my bra. Again he said, “Turn,” and when I turned back to him, he pulled it off. I didn’t have to look at my nipples to know they were already swelling. As he made me step out of my panties, I thought, “I’m his.” But when I looked down and saw my nakedness, the room and all the people in it came rushing back, and I flushed all over—their stares were like heat lamps.

  Master took a step back and looked me over. He reached out, squeezed one of my breasts, and said, “Lovely nipples.” Sensation burned from the nipple he was touching to my clitoris. He walked a slow circle around me, touching me here and there: shoulders, hips, buttocks, stomach. Finally he put a hand on my untrimmed mound.

  “Spread your legs,” he said, and I moved my feet apart. He reached between my legs and massaged my pussy with his p
alm and fingers. The room was disappearing again; I closed my eyes and sensed the ownership in his hand. He let a finger slide over my clitoris and into my slit; it explored the opening to my vagina. Oh, he was so bold with his possession—it was intoxicating.

  “You’re wet, Famula,” he said. “The animal instinct is strong in you. Are you an animal?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “What kind of animal are you?” he said.

  “I’m Master’s animal,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t want me to say more.

  “A fox, I think. A vixen.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of fox’s ears mounted on a hairband. He put them on me, stepped back, and looked at me critically. “Something’s missing,” he said.

  “A tail!” shouted a woman nearby.

  “That’s it,” he said, reached into his bag again, and pulled out a fox’s tail, bushy and magnificent, sprouting from a scary-looking butt plug.

  “Bend over, Famula,” he said.

  I was embarrassed times ten, self conscious cubed. I’d never had anything in my ass before, not so much as a finger or suppository. Andrew had never touched my anus; he hadn’t been into anal sex, though I’d often wished for it without knowing how to ask. I don’t think anyone in the world, myself included, had laid eyes on my anus since the last time my mother had changed my diaper, and now it was going to be displayed to a room full of strangers. I thought about yelling my safeword right then and running for home, but I was at least as turned on as I was embarrassed, and the more I thought about the humiliation of all these people seeing this absurd toy pushed into my ass, the more turned on I got. I bent over, as Master had commanded, and grasped my ankles.

  “Spread your legs,” he said. By this time he was holding a little bottle of lubricant. My mortification was so great, as his fingers spread the lubricant in my crack and pushed it into my hole, that I hardly noticed the sensations themselves. And then he slowly but firmly pushed the butt plug into me—I gasped with the pain, which vanished as the plug slid into position.

  So now I had a fox’s tail.

  He reached into the bag again and took out a thin leather collar with a D-ring. He fitted this around my neck, snug but not tight, found a leash in the bag, and attached that to the D-ring. He let the leash dangle in front of me.