Fire After Dark

by Sadie Matthews

  ‘Come back, darling, come and see us! We miss you too.’

  ‘No, Mum, there are only two weeks left in the flat. I don’t want to miss out on this opportunity.’ I sniff wetly and give a weak laugh. ‘I’m being silly! It’s just a little weep, nothing serious.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She’s still anxious.

  Oh Mum, I do love you. I’m still your baby girl, no matter what. I clutch the phone tightly as though it will bring me closer to her comforting embrace and familiar motherly warmth. ‘I’m fine, I promise. And I’ll come home if I get too miserable. But I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

  At exactly midday there is a knock on the door. When I open it a man in the uniform of a smart hotel or expensive restaurant is standing there holding a large tray loaded with dishes covered in silver cloches.

  ‘Your lunch, madam,’ he announces.

  ‘Thank you.’ I stand back and he brings it inside. I direct him to the kitchen and he puts the tray down, deftly dresses the table in a linen cloth he produces from somewhere, and sets it with silver cutlery, a wine glass and a tiny bud vase holding a dark red rose. Then he uncovers the dishes and lays out my lunch: an enormous char-grilled steak with tarragon butter melting over it, new potatoes speckled with fresh herbs and steamed green vegetables – broccoli, beans and wilted spinach. The aroma floats up. It looks and smells delicious and I realise how hungry I am. The waiter puts a dish of fresh raspberries with a large blob of whipped cream on the table, pours a glass of red wine for me from a small bottle he produces from a pocket, and stands back with a smile.

  ‘Your lunch is served, madam. The dishes will be collected this evening. Simply leave them outside.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again. ‘It looks wonderful.’

  ‘You’re most welcome.’

  When I’ve shown him out, I return to the kitchen. The clock tells me it is ten past twelve. I sit down to my solitary lunch.

  It is, as I expect, delicious, the steak pink in the centre and everything just as it should be. I have the distinct feeling I’m being given a hearty helping of all the major food groups, to ensure I have stamina for whatever is to come. I finish well before one o’clock but there is still an hour until I can open the box.

  I’m definitely learning the effect of anticipation and delayed gratification. Every minute seems to tick by slowly but I don’t know whether I yearn to open the box or dread it. It sits in the hall, waiting for me, and its pull is so strong I almost feel as if Dominic himself is concealed inside.

  I wander about, restless, sometimes looking from the sitting room window to the flat opposite and wondering what Dominic is doing at this very moment, and what plans he has for me today. There is no sign of life behind the darkened windows.

  At two o’clock I return to the hall and stare at the black box.

  Okay. It’s time.

  I pull the black satin ribbons and they drop silently to the floor. I lift the lid. It’s tight-fitting and the box beneath is heavy, so it takes a little while to shake the lid free. I put it down and look inside the box. All I can see is a mass of black crumpled tissue paper and another of those cream envelopes. I open it and remove a piece of thick cream card on which is printed in black lettering:

  Put on what is in here. Wear everything you find inside. Come to the boudoir at precisely 2.30 pm.

  I put down the card and push back the tissue paper.

  Whoa. Okay. The next level.

  Inside the box is a harness, not in slippery soft silk this time, but in thick, black leather. It is not embellished with tiny ribbons but by buckles and hoops of silver metal. I lift it out. As far as I can see, it will sit over my shoulders and buckle beneath my breasts. At the back, the thin straps meet between my shoulders, and then are joined by a single straight strap to a large metal ring that sits in the centre of my upper back. The straps that go under my breasts continue round also to join the ring. It’s a simple but effective design.

  I take another leather object out of the box. It looks like a large belt, and it takes me a moment to realise that it is cross between a belt and a corset – a waist cincher. It looks tiny. Am I really going to fit it?

  And then there is the collar. This is the most daunting of the three: it is thick black leather, designed to cover my neck completely. It buckles at the back and at the front is a silver metal ring.

  Oh my goodness.

  I remember that I have to wear whatever is in the box. What else in here?

  There is a pair of black stilettos, like ones I wore yesterday, and two small purple boxes. I open one. Inside are two pretty silver butterflies.

  What are these? Hair clips?

  I look at them carefully. Each one has little clamp behind it; when the wings of the butterfly are squeezed, the clamp opens. Suddenly I understand.

  Nipple clamps.

  I open the other box. Inside is a small oval of pink silicon with a silver base and a black cord. It has a tiny control beside it. I flick the switch and the little pink egg begins to vibrate.

  I see.

  So these are the props that will begin my journey to meet Dominic in the world he loves so much.

  Time is moving swiftly. I have to get ready now.

  Ten minutes later, I am wearing my harness, buckling the slender strap under my breasts. The waist cincher is buckled tightly around my middle, constraining me. I have no other underwear as there was none in the box. I have on the stilettos but my lower body is completely bare and fully exposed.

  I must go. He’s going to be waiting. He’ll be cross if I’m late.

  I pick up one of the butterflies. Is this going to hurt? I tug on my nipple and it springs to life under my touch as though it knows that something interesting is about to happen. I open the clamp with its pretty-looking silver fingers, and attach it to the rosy tip of my nipple. It locks on, the butterfly looking like it has landed there to suck nectar from my breasts. The sensation is tingling and not unpleasant, its grip is not as tight as I’d feared, but I have a feeling it will increase as time goes by. I pick up the other clamp and put it on in the same way. The delicate silver butterflies look incongruous next to the leather harness, but somehow it works.

  Now for the egg.

  I part my legs and put the little oval at my entrance. I’m already slippery there, as the time for my appointment with Dominic comes closer. Pushing with my forefinger, I press it up through the entrance and it nestles inside me, giving me a pleasant, full sensation. The black cord hangs downwards, ready for when the little egg has finished its work. I pick up the control and move the switch. The egg begins to throb and whirr inside me, though there is no noise and no outward sign of it. It is my secret internal massager.

  Now how am I going to get to the boudoir? I can hardly walk through the building like this.

  It’s not in the instructions but I’ll have to wear a coat. Surely Dominic can’t expect me to go outside virtually naked. I take the trench coat from the hall cupboard and slip it on. I’m decent again. Except for the thick leather collar around my neck, no one would know that under my coat I’m ready for submission. I slip the key to the flat into my pocket and go.

  It is more arousing than I could ever have dreamed to walk through the building, knowing where I am going and what I am wearing. The little egg keeps up its internal throbbing as I ride down in the lift and walk across the lobby to the other lift that will take me to the seventh floor.

  ‘Nice surprise was it?’ the porter asks as I pass his desk.

  I jump. I’m so intent on where I’m going that I haven’t even noticed him. ‘What?’

  ‘Your package. Nice was it?’

  I stare at him, aware of the clamps around my nipples beginning to hurt just a little, the movement of the egg and that I’m almost naked. ‘Yes, thank you. Very nice. A . . . a new dress.’

  ‘Oh, that is nice.’

  ‘Well, goodbye.’ I carry on quickly, heading for the lift, desperate to be on my way. I know I have onl
y a minute or two left until 2. 30. The lift doesn’t come at once, and I can feel my anxiety growing as I wait for it. I’m going to be late!

  At last the doors slide open and I dash inside, pressing the button for the seventh floor.

  Come on, come on.

  The lift climbs slowly the seventh storey and slides open again. I hurry down the corridor, awkward in my high heels and knock at the door of the boudoir, panting.

  Please let me be on time.

  The door does not open. I knock again and wait. Still nothing. I rap again, loudly.

  Suddenly it swings open. He is there, in a long black robe. He has eyes of icy steel and his mouth is set hard. ‘You are late,’ he says briefly, and my stomach turns to liquid fear.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ My lips are stiff and I’m shaking. I can hardly get the words out. ‘The lift . . .’

  ‘I said two thirty. There are no excuses. Come inside.’

  Oh shit. I’m frightened, my heart pounding in my chest, adrenalin prickling all over me. A voice is telling to me to run away. To tell him to get lost, I’m not playing these games any more. But I know I’ll obey. I’m too far in to climb out of all this now.

  ‘Take off your coat. Which, incidentally, I didn’t give permission for.’

  I want to protest but I know now he wanted me to disobey him in some way. I’ve managed to make him particularly angry by being late. The coat drops off my shoulders and I’m standing there in my harness, my nipples a vivid red and now stinging hard with the pressure of the clamps and the fact that my treacherous body is responding to him, heating up and tingling. The little egg in my depths is still pressing away, revving me up with its humming caresses.

  Dominic’s eyes glitter beneath his straight black brows. ‘Very good,’ he says. ‘Yes. That’s what I wanted. Now. Get on your hands and knees.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ I drop down as instructed. He bends down and does something at the front of my collar. As he stands up, I realise he’s attached a long leather lead to it.

  ‘Come.’

  He walks towards the bedroom and I follow behind, crawling on my hands and knees. He doesn’t tug on the lead but I know it’s there, symbolising that I am his. In the bedroom, the lights are dimmed. A long low bench has been put at the foot of the bed. Once we are inside, he bends down again and removes my nipple clamps. It is a huge relief when they are off, but they leave the nipples elongated, throbbing and hypersensitive.

  ‘Go to the bench,’ Dominic commands, standing up again. ‘Kneel in front and stretch out along it.’

  I obey his orders, wondering what is going to happen now as I crawl to the bench and along the smooth wood, my knees on the floor, my bottom exposed.

  ‘Hug it.’

  I wrap my arms around the bench, my sensitive nipples hurting as I press down on the surface.

  Dominic begins to pace around behind me. I can’t see what he’s doing but I can hear a rhythmic slap as he hits something against his palm.

  ‘You disobeyed me,’ he says in a voice of utter sternness. ‘You were late. Do you think a submissive should keep her master waiting, even for one second?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I whisper. The anticipation of whatever he’s going to do to me is terrible.

  ‘It was your duty to be here before two thirty so that you could be in the boudoir as I ordered on the stroke of the half hour.’ At the word stroke, he slaps his hand again.

  What’s he holding, for Pete’s sake?

  His voice drops to a whisper. ‘What should I do to you?’

  ‘Punish me, sir.’ My voice is small and humble.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Punish me, sir,’ I repeat, more loudly.

  ‘Yes. I need to teach you some manners. Are you a naughty girl?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The words are arousing me, making me hotter. I wonder if he’s forgotten about the egg, which is still throbbing away inside me.

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘A naughty girl.’

  ‘Yes. A very naughty, disobedient girl. You need six of the best to teach you a lesson.’

  He stops pacing and thwacks whatever he’s holding through the air. It makes a whistling sound and I guess it is the riding crop. I feel a rush of fear. I don’t want this, it hurts. Stay strong, I urge myself. Don’t show him you’re afraid.

  There is a long silence and I feel my buttocks tingling with the anticipation. I can hardly bear it. And then, thwack!

  The whip lands across my buttocks. It stings but doesn’t deliver the sickening blow I’ve been fearing. I stay still and try not to move.

  Thwack!

  It lands again across the plumpest part of my buttocks, a little harder this time. I gasp. Before I can regain myself, it lands again, harder still and then again. I cry out. My whole bottom feels aflame, the skin red hot and sensitive. The crop cuts into me again with a biting, stinging slice that sends sizzling agony across my skin. I don’t like this feeling of burning pain at all. The little egg is still whirring inside me but I’m hardly aware of it. All I can feel is the agonising cut of the whip as it lands on me for a fifth time. The pain makes me sob out and tears rush into my eyes. I steel myself for the last blow and it comes, harder than all the rest, cutting into my tender skin with the burn of a red-hot poker.

  I feel a shuddering sob rising up in chest but I summon all my strength and suppress it. I don’t want him to see me cry.

  It’s over. Over.

  But I’m going to tell him that I don’t want that feeling again. I can’t bear the feeling of the crop, not just the pain it inflicts but the sense of debasement I feel from having my bottom whipped like that.

  He bends down and tugs on the black cord between my legs. The little throbbing egg comes out with a tiny pop. He switches it off.

  ‘Well done, Beth,’ he says softly and rubs his hand gently over my bottom. ‘I was hard on you. I couldn’t resist the sight of your gorgeous skin turning so hot and red for me. I wanted to tear into it with all my strength.’ He draws in a breath and sighs. ‘You’ve made me very hot. Get up.’

  I lift myself off the bench, my bottom throbbing with pain. I can barely stand.

  ‘Come to me on your knees.’

  I obey, and as I reach him, he lets his robe fall open, displaying his nakedness underneath. His penis is standing, huge and hard, evidently fired up by the excitement of what he’s just done. His eyes are dark with lust as he watches me moving towards him, my breasts pushed upwards by the harness. I’m holding the lead that’s clipped to my collar so I don’t trip over it.

  ‘Give me the lead.’

  I pass it up to him, keeping my eyes lowered so that I don’t offend him with a direct gaze. He takes it and tugs on it gently, pulling tight until I’m forced to press against him, his erection hard against my face. My breasts are against his legs, my collar pressed against his thighs.

  Desire moves inside me, counteracting the painful stinging of my bottom. The smell of him is gorgeous, familiar and comforting. At last he’s going to let me love him the way I want to. I can touch him, caress him, show him how I feel about him.

  ‘Take me in your mouth,’ he commands. ‘But do not touch me with your hands.’

  Disappointment floods through me. But at least I get to kiss him, lick him, and taste him . . .

  I run my tongue along the shaft: it’s hard and radiating inner heat. When I reach the top, I take it all between my lips, twirling my tongue over the smooth surface, sucking and licking. His fingers curl into my hair, holding on firmly as I let his penis fill my mouth, taking in as much as I can. It’s difficult at the angle I’m at, and my jaw already feels stiff as I open wide to take in his girth, but the joy of being able to love him like this makes me determined to ignore the discomfort. Oh, I adore licking him, smelling him and tasting his musky, salty flavour.

  As I suck him, the fingers in my hair tighten. He moans. Then he pulls himself free of my mouth and walks over to the white leather chair, tugging on my lead so that I fol
low. He sits back on the chair, his legs open, and pulls me up onto the footrest, so that I can lean forward as he did to me yesterday and return to my task.

  I hold on to the side of the chair and take him in my mouth again, sucking and licking. He moans more loudly. I want to hold his shaft and move the skin, to bring him even more pleasure but I remember that it is forbidden, so I concentrate on working hard with my mouth, titillating him with my tongue, sometimes smoothing him long soft laps and sometimes using the tip to play around its top.

  ‘Yes, that’s beautiful,’ he murmurs. He’s watching me as I service his penis, his eyes half closed. I imagine how I must look to him in my collar and harness, paying homage to his huge erection with my mouth. I can feel my own arousal now, the wetness between my legs, the growing hunger to be filled by this great thing of his.

  He growls again, and draws in a broken breath. I can feel him swelling even further in my mouth. His hips are moving now, pushing his length into me, fucking my mouth. I want to touch him, I need to – I’m half worried that he’ll push too far down my throat and choke me and that I’ll need my hands to stop him. He thrusts harder in, and I fear that I might gag, but his pleasure is about to erupt now. He gives several sharp, hard pushes and a hot gush erupts in my mouth, full of salty liquid whirling around my tongue. I feel it swim in my mouth, then I swallow it down. It leaves a strange burning trail. Without thinking, I put my hand to Dominic’s penis as he pulls it from my mouth.

  ‘That was lovely, Beth,’ he says in a voice that is velvety yet menacing. ‘But you touched me. And I believe that I strictly forbade such a thing.’

  I stare up at him, nervous. Of course I am still his submissive. I must obey. Does this mean more punishment? I’d been hoping that he was going to do something about the heat between my legs and my growing desire.

  ‘I . . . I apologise, sir—’

  He ignores me, cutting me off. ‘Get up and go to the hall. Put on your coat when you get there and wait.’

  I do as I’m told, wondering what on earth we’re going to do now. A few minutes later Dominic emerges from the boudoir. He is dressed in his black T-shirt and jeans.