by Stasia Black
“I’m locked up. You’re in complete control. And here, I’ll show you the room so you can see that we’re the only ones here.” The camera jostles crazily again before steadying and doing a slow three-sixty panorama of the room.
In spite of the unsteady cam, I get the picture. It’s a bright, clean room and the walls aren’t a garish red or anything. From the little I can make out, the cream-colored walls are perfectly plain except for two sections where well-organized implements hang like tools in a garage. Other than that, the room’s empty except for the wooden post and a few larger pieces of furniture placed around the room, similar to things I saw at the club.
At the same time, none of it is large enough to obscure anyone’s form. Daniel’s telling the truth. There’s no one else there.
At least not in that room. But what if he has friends hiding just outside the door, waiting until I let my defenses down? A big part of me wants to turn back. Go home where it’s safe.
“Please, Mistress,” Daniel suddenly abandons his façade of charm. He’s turned the phone back to his face and his eyes plead with me. “I need a session tonight as much as I suspect you do. Your call felt like a gift from God.”
In any other situation, that line would’ve sounded too cheesy to believe. But there’s something about the sincerity in Daniel’s face, a certain need haunting his eyes.
Christ. I bite my lip. What was he even thinking, throwing away the keys like that? What if I decided to turn and leave? He’d just be stuck there for… how long? I guess he still has his phone, but damn. It’s reckless. A little insane.
I know the feeling.
Isn’t it the same need that drove me to ride the train for over an hour to a stranger’s house on a whim?
And I keep thinking stranger, but that’s not exactly true. It’s not like he’s just some dude I hooked up with over the internet or at a club—which is something people do all the time. Jackson has spent time with this guy. They have mutual acquaintances and talked like they’d known each other for a while.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I go to the text I already composed to Lydia with Daniel’s address and a message about sending in the cavalry if I don’t call in three hours. Then I put the key in the lock, turn it, and open the door. It opens easily and then I’m inside the tiled foyer of the townhouse. I close the door behind me and set the key on a side table in the entryway.
It’s quiet in here. I look around, my nerves jettisoning my heart rate. Hardwood floors. The place is styled in cool tones. Slate gray walls, white accent trim. Very classic.
There’s a stairway to the left and a small hallway to the right leading to the rest of the house. A quick glance shows the door cut into the wall underneath the stairs. No doubt that’s the one Daniel was talking about that leads down to the basement. It makes sense. The two stairwells are most likely stacked parallel on top of one another. Slowly I move forward. Instead of opening the door to the basement, I pass it by.
I bend over and slip my hunting knife out of my steel-toed boot as I continue creeping forward. Yes, I’m wearing the mini-dress with my kick-ass combat boots. I actually like the message it sends. I fuck with you, not the other way around.
The hallway opens into a dining room. Framed modern art hangs tastefully on the walls—bright splashes of color that don’t form recognizable shapes but draw the eye nonetheless. I take all this in, but not with an appreciative eye. I’m scoping out the territory. Assessing threats. Other than the walls, the house is sparsely furnished.
I check out the whole house to make sure Daniel was telling the truth and no one’s hiding and waiting to jump out at me. It all checks out.
I don’t put the knife back in my boot, though. Not until I open the door to the basement and head down the stairs. The room at the bottom is just as well lit as it was in the video, and bigger than I expected. It’s a full basement, equal to the size of the house. And there in the center is the large wooden post, thick as a telephone pole, which Daniel has indeed handcuffed himself to. Oh, and he’s naked, ass toward me. Considering this is how I’ve spent most of my time with the guy, it’s not as startling as I would have thought.
A quick glance around shows me that there’s no one else here, either. No tricks. No traps.
Daniel actually chained himself to a post and has been waiting for me to show up. Daniel’s watching me over his shoulder and his eyes immediately zero in on the knife in my hand. His eyebrows go up and his mouth drops open slightly.
“Sorry,” I apologize, immediately bending and stuffing the knife back into its sheath in my boot. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Of course,” he says. When I look up again, I see his eyes are on my left boot where I sheathed the knife. “You don’t know me. Safety’s the first rule in the lifestyle, after all.”
I can’t help arching an eyebrow at him. “Exactly. So how is restraining yourself and giving a stranger the key to your house safe?”
His eyes finally come up and lock on mine. “I’m good at reading people. I knew you were someone I could trust. I felt it when we first met.”
It’s a good sentiment and I can’t deny it makes a little something twinge in my chest. I still keep my voice stern when I say, “It’s still stupid and reckless. You shouldn’t do it.”
Daniel casts his eyes down. “Mistress is correct. I was very foolish. I deserve to be punished.” His eyes flick hopefully back up at me before returning to the ground.
I look to the wall. All kinds of things hang there. Wooden paddles of all shapes and sizes. Leather paddles too, studded with metal bits. Floggers with thin little leather strips and others with wide leather pieces. Some of the flogger strips are knotted at the end, a few even with little bits of metal tied into the knots. And then there are the whips. Whips of all lengths, material, braids and tassels.
Suddenly I feel like exactly the newbie that I am.
“What does Mistress require of me tonight?” Daniel asks.
Uh, is there some sort of script I’m supposed to be following? Probably so. At the same time, Jackson did say that it’s supposed to be a learning process. Daniel knows I’m inexperienced and he gave me his card anyway. I step closer to him.
“You know that I’m new. I need to be in control. I like it when you’re tied up.” I reach out and give a tug on his bound wrists. It jerks his whole body even closer toward the pole and I smile. Having him immobilized like this, knowing I can step away and he can’t follow… Oh yes, I like that very much. “It made me hot when we spanked you. What about you?” I tilt my head at him. “What do you like? What do you need?”
He’s been looking at the floor, but his eyes come back to mine and as I watch, they dilate.
“Pain. I like pain.”
Yes. I remember that. Pain and humiliation. I nod and paste on my most confident smile. This is all a little weird still, but I don’t want him to feel like I’m judging him.
“All right then. So, the paddle?” I look over to the wall at the assortment of instruments. The wooden paddle is the only one I’ve used before.
“The whip,” he says, his voice certain.
I look back at him sharply and his cheeks color. His gaze immediately jumps back to the floor. “If it pleases Mistress.”
I bite my lip and feel bad for a second. Jackson said dominant-submissive relationships should be about mutual benefit. Dommes are supposed to care about their sub’s needs before their own but I came here only concerned with what I needed. Damn, I’m failing even before I begin at this. I reach out and touch Daniel’s cheek, urging his face back up.
“It’s not that I don’t want to give you what you need,” I say. “It’s just that I don’t know how to use those yet.”
His eyes brighten. “I could teach you. It’s easy and a quick lesson would be enough. Then we could play.”
He seems so earnest.
“The rubber whips are more like practice ones anyway,” he nods toward the wall. “Like that green one. Eve
n if you screw up, they’ll barely sting. This is how a lot of mistresses learn. Their subs help them pick up new skills.”
I consider him a moment and then look up where he’s gesturing. It’s easy enough to see the neon green rubber whip. A practice whip. It would be good to learn. And good for me if tonight turned into a session practicing my Domme skills, focusing on what Daniel needs rather than stewing in my own shit. Gentry’s smug face flashes in my eyes but I swallow hard and force the image out.
Yes. It would be far better to make tonight about Daniel rather than letting Gentry have any more space in my head.
I walk over and retrieve the key to Daniel’s handcuffs from the floor where he tossed it earlier. I come back to him and look at his cuffed hands.
His posture is deferent, but he’s still a big guy. I bypass his hands and go first to the ankle manacles that lie unused at the bottom of the pole. A heavy chain runs through an iron eyelet screwed into the pole. It’s long enough to give the person locked in some leeway to step away from the pole. I heft the chain in my hands then inspect the ankle cuffs. Unlike at the club, these aren’t padded leather cuffs, just regular metal handcuffs like the police use. The ankle ones do look larger, but that seems to be the only consideration given.
Daniel doesn’t make a sound of objection as I attach the cuff to his ankle. It’s curiously satisfying to hear the small lock click into place and know he can’t go anywhere unless I allow it. The feeling only gets more intense as I lock the other ankle in. I make sure to leave a lot of extra space so they don’t close too tightly and chafe. Though I don’t imagine the metal cuffs can be comfortable. Really, I’m surprised he doesn’t have the leather kind. Everything else in his ‘dungeon’ seems to be professional-grade equipment like at the club.
I’m slow to stand, taking in his corded legs, high, tight buttocks, narrow waist that leads up to his nicely shaped back. He’s not overly muscled. He has something of a jogger’s body. I run my hand up his thigh, skip his ass, and then continue up his back, cocking my head to the side as I observe him.
He shudders slightly under my touch and he bows his head. And God. The sight of a man chained and at my mercy—
My breath escapes in an erratic stutter and for a moment I feel lightheaded. Yeah. That high from Monday night? It’s back. Maybe not quite as good because it doesn’t have as much sexual edge without Jackson here, but the high is still present. I kick at the chains near Daniel’s ankles just to hear them rattle and it sends another sizzle running through my blood.
There’s a tiny bit of slack at his wrist cuffs. Grabbing the chain, I yank him forward just enough to topple his center of balance. His chest rams roughly into the smooth wood grain of the pole but he keeps his eyes on the floor. It pleases me even though I can’t describe why.
Whoa. So maybe this is what the rush is about for me. Everything that happened Monday was all kind of a jumbling flash of sensation. I couldn’t separate out what parts especially spoke to me and what was simply happening and exciting because it was the first time I was seeing it. From the reading I’ve been doing since then, dominants and subs usually have a preference in what they’re into. Which letter or letters of the BDSM acronym particularly call to them, or maybe a kink that’s even more specialized.
Daniel embraces masochism. And being humiliated.
So what will my thing be? Bondage obviously goes on my preferred kinks checklist. What else? I lick my lips, taking one more long second to enjoy the sight in front of me. I think about the other letters. Dominance. Sadism. Do I like inflicting pain?
A secondary rush hits when it starts to sink in: this isn’t just about the sex. I get to… discover myself. Find out what’s inside me. My fingers grip around the key in my palm. Do I want to know if a sadist lives inside me? What does that even mean if I do like it? Hurting people?
“If the Mistress frees my hands, I can begin the demonstration.” Daniel’s voice is soft. Deferent.
Still, he probably shouldn’t speak without being spoken to. But I appreciate being pulled out of my thoughts, so I don’t chide him. I do make my face stone, though, as I use the key to undo the handcuffs at his wrists. I do a quick inspection of the skin and see red lines from where the cuffs cut into his skin.
“You had them on too tight.” I glare at him. “They should have been secured one or two notches over.” I made sure to leave space for two fingers when I was tightening his ankle cuffs. He obviously pulled these as tight as he possibly could. And he should know better.
His eyes stay downcast. “I’m sorry, Mistress.”
“Don’t do it again.” My voice is cutting. I’m totally new to this whole deal and even I know he deserves a good spanking for that. Then I remember Jackson saying that for Daniel, that would be a treat. So maybe not.
“What am I going to do with you?”
Daniel dares to look up at me, that charming smile on his face. “Let me train you in the art of whipping a naughty sub?”
I give him a wallop on the ass for mouthing off. His face drops immediately to the floor, but I notice the smile remains. What a little—
Instead of giving him what he wants with another spanking, I order him to stand up straight. I put the key to his cuffs in my bra. He watches, which of course is part of the point. Look, but never touch.
Heading to the wall, I grab the green whip. “Which one do you want to demonstrate?”
Daniel’s head pops up and his eyes barely skirt the wall. “Brown braided leather, third to the right from the green.”
I locate the one he means and hold the two whips side-by-side. Though they are different materials, they have a similar shape and length. I head back toward Daniel and he gestures toward the far corner. “You see the mannequin bust over there? It’s what Dommes usually practice on.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “So I’m not the first you’ve had to teach these tricks to?”
He ducks his head. “I’m happy to educate when I can.”
I half laugh, half scoff. “I bet.”
The bust in the corner is heavy, but it’s on wheels. Unlike a regular mannequin, it’s not flesh-colored, but covered in black latex and when I touch the shoulders, I can feel that it’s more heavy-duty than just pieces of molded plastic. I assumed it was just a part of the decor when I first came in.
I roll the bust close to the pole where my—out of nowhere the word slave pops into my head—stands chained. Slave. My glance drops to the two whips where I let them fall just out of Daniel’s reach. My stomach flips with excitement.
Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit. What the hell am I doing?
I notch my chin up higher. Fuck it, whatever I’m feeling, I’ve got to put on a brave face. My sub… slave… might be the one teaching me a new skill tonight, but I’m the one in control. It’s not just what’s expected. It’s what we both need. For the first time all day, I feel like I can really breathe. Inhale. Fill up my lungs with oxygen. And when I exhale, breathe out every toxic feeling.
Because in here, I am a Master and for this small, agreed-upon time, this man is my slave.
“How far away should it be placed, Slave?” Inside my head, my use of the word is tentative, but outwardly, I keep my voice like steel.
Daniel doesn’t seem to think I’ve said anything out of the ordinary. “For these whips, a distance of about eight feet is good. We’ll get an even better feel once we begin.”
I move back out of the strike zone and then toss Daniel his whip of choice.
“First, we’ll start with an easy one, the circle strike.” He crouches slightly and with his right hand, he whips the leather in an arcing horizontal circle. At the end of the circle, the tip of the whip strikes the mannequin’s upper back. “It’s best to aim for the fleshier areas of the back, at least with new subs. An experienced sub like me can take it really anywhere. I just want to let you know the protocols for when you take your new skills elsewhere.”
He repeats the strike over and over severa
l times. I watch the graceful movement of his arm. It’s really more about the wrist, though. My eyebrows furrow as I zero in on the way his wrist rotates to create the circular motion. I repeat it with my own whip in a smaller scale and without the intensity to make the whip fly.
Daniel’s whip falls to his side and with a nod of his head, he indicates it’s my turn.
“Toss me yours.” It’s a command and I hold up my arm. This situation might seem on the up and up, but there’s no way I’m letting him keep anything that can even remotely be used as a weapon near me. He’s the only one that, for whatever reason, has agreed to trust me that far. I never said I’d do the same.
He gathers the whip without comment or expression and tosses it in my direction. I let it drop near my feet because me and coordination skills are not best friends. Somehow I think butter-fingering a simple catch wouldn’t do great for establishing my dominance. I leave the coil of leather on the floor and walk forward to reposition the bust so the back faces me. Then I step back again and try out the circle-strike.
My first few tries, I’m not close enough and I miss the target completely. I step nearer but the circle I try to make is wobbly and oblong.
“If you lower your stance slightly, you’ll get better results,” Daniel says.
I do as he instructs, lowering my center of gravity. The first time I get a satisfying thwack, a jolt of electricity seems to travel from the impact back through the whip, up my arm and into my chest where it reverberates. Oh yes. That’s quite satisfying. I do it again and three out of five times get a satisfying whack.
“Now reverse the direction of the circle so you can strike at the other side of the back.”
I do is he instructs. It’s a little trickier at first to go counterclockwise, but after ten repetitions, I’m getting the hang of it. I practice switching back and forth for another quarter hour. Daniel also shows me a diagonal technique where I flip my wrist to create an X pattern in the air to deliver equal blows on the upper shoulders similar to what I saw Jackson do.
