The Delicious Torment: A Story of Submission

by Alison Tyler

  “That table cost more than fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “I know.”

  “And…” He had resumed his circles now, but was moving slowly, so slowly.

  “You come home then—right when I’m trying to figure out what to do—”

  “I like this one,” he said, “another punishment in front of an audience. But this time, it’s someone you know. Someone who doesn’t know anything about you. Not truly. Is that right?”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “And I let her watch before I send her home?”

  “Yes, Jack—”

  “Watch what exactly?”

  “You see the color on the bottle, and you promise my ass will match that hue before you’re done.”

  “Too bad you didn’t choose a light pink. It had to be red, huh?”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “Sweet,” Jack said, and I could tell he wasn’t messing with me, because he sat up then, stripped quickly, and flipped me on the bed. In seconds, he was inside of me, fucking me, knowing exactly how prepped I was by all that foreplay.

  “And now?” he said. “What are you thinking of now?”

  “I don’t—” I panted. “I don’t tell stories while we fuck.”

  “But what do you think about?”

  “What you might do to me next.”

  He slapped my ass hard. “Like that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  And again, in rhythm now to the way he was fucking me. I felt transported by having been on the edge for so long, and when Jack pressed against me, running one hand over my pussy, pinching my clit between his finger and thumb, I came in a series of glittering waves.

  “I think we will plan a slumber party,” he said, pressing his face against my neck as he gripped my hips. I could tell he was close. “But I think we’ll invite Alex, instead.”

  And then he was coming, holding me tight and coming hard. Coming to the fantasies in my own head. Fantasies that blended and melded with his own.

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Would I Lie to You?

  “I’ll be home at lunch,” Jack said over the phone.

  “Do you want me to order in?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to make reservations?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want—”

  “You,” he said. “I want you.”

  I thought of him at his desk making the call. Visualized him surrounded by the chaos of his work life, the clients, the phone calls, the constant stress. And then I thought of him taking a step back from his world and into ours, pausing long enough to call me.

  “How?” I asked, understanding there was more to come. That he would give instructions as to exactly how he wanted me.

  “In high heels,” Jack said, “the black patent-leather ones.”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “And the ruffled white panties. You know the ones.”

  I did. They were his favorite of all of my knickers. I waited to hear what else. What skirt to put on. Or what kinky uniform. But he said, “I’ll only have a little while. And this is what I want—I want to come in and find you ready, standing by the chair, waiting. I’m going to sit down, and you are to bend over my lap. Immediately. I’m in a generous mood today, kid. You choose the paddle. Have it ready for me. Because all I can think of doing right now is spanking your luscious ass. That image is what’s keeping me from getting any work done at all.”

  I listened carefully.

  “I’ve got a million things to get through before seven,” Jack explained, “and you’re not letting me. I’m sitting here at my desk with a hard-on, wishing I could bend you over my lap right here and spank the daylights out of you.”

  I squeezed my thighs together, feeling the wetness start.

  “So instead, I’m going to have to cancel an important lunch, and break every law of physics to get home and then back to work by my first afternoon meeting. And because I have to do that, you’re going to have to pay.”

  He could almost make me come if he kept talking to me like that.

  “So go choose, Sam,” Jack murmured. “Go choose the paddle, and get ready like I asked. I’ll be home in less than an hour.”

  He disconnected the call before I said, “Yes, Sir,” but I whispered the words anyway, even though I knew he couldn’t hear them. I’d been writing, but I was at a good stopping place. And there was no way I could go back to work now. Not with images of an impending spanking swirling in my head. I walked quickly to the bedroom, stripping off my clothes on the way, my shirt over my head, my bra next. I pulled off my jeans and panties once I was in the room, and then searched the top dresser drawer for the ruffled knickers Jack had requested—only to discover they were nowhere in sight.

  I’d been turned on since I’d first heard his voice on the phone. Now, I was nervous. Jack had been specific. He hadn’t told me to select any old pair. He’d wanted these, a gift he’d given me himself. I rummaged through the hamper, but didn’t find them there, either.

  What the fuck? Panties don’t walk away on their own.

  I kept on the black set that I had, and chose a paddle quickly. One that I knew would make Jack smile. The SLUT paddle would imprint the word into my fair skin if he spanked me hard enough. I put on the shoes, spiked heels that I’d finally learned to walk in. And then I searched the whole place for my missing undies.

  White. Maybe they’d gotten mixed in with the sheets. I tore through the linen closet, but came up empty handed. Next thought—I’d put them with the dry cleaning. I emptied the canvas sack, searching through my rumpled dresses and several of Jack’s sweaters. But no luck. When I heard the key in the lock, I looked around the room in distress. I’d managed to trash the place in my search, and I was going to fail. If I’d had a tail, it would have hung forlornly between my legs as I made my way to the living room. When Jack opened the door, I was standing by the chair, as he’d commanded, but I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t pleased.

  “I only asked you to do three things,” Jack said.

  “I know, Jack, but—”

  He held up a finger. “I hear excuses all day long,” he said. “One after another after another. I don’t need to hear yours.”

  I wanted to keep talking, but his expression froze me solid.

  Jack didn’t sit in the chair. He didn’t beckon me forward. He simply stared at me, disappointment in his eyes, until I lowered my head, desolate. Desperate.

  “Take them off,” he said, and I worked quickly, slipping the black satin panties down my thighs and stepping gingerly out of them. “Forget the paddle,” he said, “Go on back to the bedroom.”

  My heart sank. I’d been hoping to clean up the wreck of the room after he’d gone back to work, leaving him none the wiser about my useless search.

  When Jack walked into his normally sterile bedroom, he shook his head.

  “Three simple things,” he said flatly. “That’s all. I had a bitch of a morning, and I wanted to come home and play with you. Take an hour off. And this is what I find.” He gestured at the rumpled sheets, the emptied hamper, the colorful spill of dry cleaning on the hardwood floor like paint tipped on a canvas.

  “Get on the bed.”

  I hurried to obey as Jack removed his coat and tossed it to the chair.

  “Face up, arms over your head.”

  Quickly, I did as he said, closing my eyes as he clicked the cuffs on my wrists, as he bound my ankles so that my legs were spread wide apart. He’d ignored my choice of the SLUT paddle, and now opened the cabinet, pulling out his favorite flogger. I winced before he’d even started, anticipating the pain. But even having been whipped like this before—the first shock of the tiny strands against my tender skin was unexpected. Jack worked me mercilessly with crisscrossing strokes, and I arched my body uselessly, my brain confused by the mixed signals of the toy. Jack was hurting me, but making me wetter with every stroke. I wanted more—but how could I want more? Being p
unished like this was one of the most difficult experiences for me to accept.

  Yet I could tell that Jack relished every moment.

  For days now, I’d felt that Jack was on a mission. He wanted to climb inside of me, to know where I went when I got quiet. To understand all aspects of the way my mind worked. It was unnerving, yet flattering. I’d spent such a long time trying to make Byron happy, completely subjugating myself, stamping down my own desires, that I was put off guard having someone so dedicated to searching out what gave me pleasure.

  And not only what—but why.

  It wasn’t enough for Jack to know that I got even more turned on if I had to anticipate a spanking for several hours before receiving one. He methodically figured out exactly how far to take it.

  “You’re wet,” he said, pausing to run his fingers down the split of my nether lips. “So fucking wet, naughty girl. There’s no real way to punish you, is there? It all gets you off, my little pain slut.”

  As he spoke, he undid the bindings on my ankles, turning me face down now, and I could only guess what he had in mind. No mere paddling. No… I turned to look as he chose his toy, and the word escaped from my lips before I could stop myself. “No…”

  “What did you say?”

  “Sir,” I said, knowing I wasn’t fooling him. But he was holding a paddle I’d never even touched before. An oversized wood fraternity-style paddle, black lacquered, drilled through with holes.

  “Did you say ‘no’?”

  I shook my head.

  “Are you lying now?”

  Oh fuck… Why hadn’t I been able to find the panties? If I had, he would have used the SLUT paddle on me, and then he’d probably have fucked me bent over the chair before returning to work. Now, he was going to try out a new toy, and I would end up standing for the rest of the day.

  “Yes, Jack. Sorry, Jack.” What do I need to say, Jack, to make you put that thing back?

  “Up,” he demanded. I want your ass up, as if it’s begging for each stroke.”

  I raised my hips into the position, and then tensed, waiting. Waiting…

  Jack smacked the paddle against my ass, and I cried out from the immediate pain. Being spanked in the middle of the day, with unexpected force, somehow made the whole situation harder to deal with. I don’t know why, like I don’t know why sometimes the crop made me cry and beg, and other times I could hold myself still and take it. Pain is variable rather than consistent. Everything matters. The circumstances. The outfits. The tension.

  Jack gave me a good, hearty punishment with his choice of tools, before dropping the frat paddle on the mattress and undoing the cuffs on my wrists. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he had no plans to fuck me right now.

  “You wait here,” he said, and I heard him return to the cabinet once more. When he was back at my side, I felt the familiar swipe of lube between my cheeks, and then Jack slid in one of the larger plugs, making me wince at his lack of gentleness.

  “You’ll wear that until I get home, and then we’ll finish.”

  “Yes, Jack.” I stood carefully, and when he gave me permission, I got dressed. Not in jeans, but in my favorite soft tie-pants and a white T-shirt. I padded barefoot down the hall to say good-bye to him, and I could hear him making a call from the kitchen phone.

  I stayed meekly in the living room, not wanting to disturb him, to get into any more trouble. My gaze happened to wander to the outer pocket of his briefcase, where a hint of white lace could be seen.

  Chapter Nineteen:

  Pictures of You

  When I woke up one morning, there was a Polaroid on my pillow. A Polaroid Jack must have taken before he left. It was still early in the morning—earlier than he usually headed out to his office—but he was in the middle of a huge case at work, and for several weeks, he’d told me, his hours were going to be haywire. Late in the evening. Early in the morning.

  Jack never seemed to need as much sleep as normal humans. But I guess I’m a bit like that myself. When I hear people talk about their standard eight hours, or even their necessary six hours, I am in awe. I tend to sleep hard for about two to three hours at a time, and I often wake up and work in between.

  Yet even though Jack was busy, focused, he found time for me. Or rather, he made time for me. He left trinkets in places where he knew I’d discover them. Surprises to excite me or turn me on—a new paddle hanging from the back of the bathroom door. An expensive set of heavy metal cuffs in the drawer with the silverware. And today—a photo. This photo. It was of his leather belt, coiled neatly, almost snake-like.

  I looked at the picture, ran my fingers lightly over the surface. It was dry. He’d been gone for a bit, then. I headed down the hallway to the coffeemaker, poured myself a cup, and located the second photo waiting for me on the countertop. I was reminded of a story told to me by my friend Angelo. His new girlfriend had delighted him one evening with votive candles leading from the front door to his bedroom. Rose petals everywhere. Champagne poured and ready. She was waiting in a dainty sort of nightgown, and he had been floored by the preparation work all done for him. He told this story over breakfast, with her present, and several of his foreign friends around, who needed the story translated into Italian and French. I watched the girl, saw her face flush, and knew she’d never thought he’d share their private moments over eggs Benedict. But the care she’d taken had overwhelmed him—the idea that someone would do all of that for him—and he’d needed to share.

  The second photo was of a schoolgirl skirt Jack had bought for me. Red-and-black plaid, almost decent in length. He’d taken the picture with the skirt hanging from the door of the closet. I wondered if he’d shot these photos that morning, or if this was an idea he’d had for some time. I brought my coffee back to the bedroom and snagged the skirt from the closet. Sharing the same hanger was a white T-shirt and black cashmere cardigan, and attached to one of the clips on the hanger was Polaroid number three: a pair of knee-length leather boots with chrome buckles on the sides. Jack loved it when I wore hardcore boots with girly skirts. I grabbed the boots from the floor of the closet, turning them upside down, into the game now.

  Out fell the next clue: a picture of the fishnet stockings and panties he obviously wanted me to wear. I hurried to my top dresser drawer, in a flush now, aroused by the game. As I said, Jack had been busy. Not too busy to fuck me, of course. Or to play our kinky little games. But focused on work. I could tell. He’d stay up even later than usual, and when he was at my side in the bed, I knew he didn’t fall asleep right away. He thought things over, processed them. I hated to disturb him when he was like that, and I’d fall asleep half the bed away, lonely even so close to him.

  But this was different. Jack had planned this. Had taken the time to go through all of these steps, setting my morning routine on its head. Setting my day into completely unexpected motion.

  In the dresser drawer was the next photo. And when I saw it, I felt my breath catch. It was a storefront in West Hollywood. One that I recognized immediately, but I hadn’t been to before: a high-end piercing boutique.

  I stopped in place, holding the photo and wanting to call Jack. Everything I’d done so far was automatic, following commands he hadn’t even given me verbally. Wasn’t I well trained? But this was different. He knew my history, knew that I’d had one of my tattoos done for Connor. I’d been waiting, I think, for him to come up with his own way to top that experience.

  Was this what Jack had in mind?

  Jack didn’t have any piercings of his own. I couldn’t imagine him with pierced ears or nipples, or pierced anything… I’d dated men who had rings in different locations, silver hoops that suited them. But none of that would have worked for Jack. So the trip to the studio was going to be all about me. And what did that mean?

  What part of me was to be adorned?

  I sat down on the bed, still in my white drawstring pants and the skimpy tee I’d slept in. Slowly, I drank my coffee, letting the java work its
magic. Letting the hot bitter liquid wake me up. I had a feeling that this was the last photo. And so what did that mean? I spread the pictures out on the bed. I’d assumed I had found them all in proper order.

  Number one, the belt—was that a threat?

  Follow the commands, or this is what you’ll get.

  Or was it a reward?

  Do this for me, and I’ll tan your sweet hide.

  Either could be the case, and both scenarios turned me on equally. I shuffled the photos, like a tarot reader I’d been to once in New Orleans, wondering if mixing up the order would help. But no. There was the outfit to wear, the place to go. So what did the belt have to do with the rest? He couldn’t possibly want me to put it on.

  I said fuck it and headed down the hall to take a shower.

  When I returned to the bedroom, everything seemed clearer. I’d get dressed in Jack’s chosen outfit, search the place for any missing clues, and if I couldn’t find any, I’d go to the piercing studio and wait. That made sense to me.

  Once I had on the modified schoolgirl uniform—no self-respecting actual schoolgirl would have chosen the kick-ass motorcycle boots—I grabbed up the pictures and started down the hall. Then stopped.

  I was supposed to bring the belt. That made sense. I went back to Jack’s closet and searched through his collection until I found the one he’d photographed. When I pulled it from the rack, I saw another picture clipped to the tail of the leather.

  The final picture was of Alex. Posed with sunglasses tilted down so I could see his eyes. A mocking smile on his face. As if he knew his mug was the last thing I expected to find.

  How did Jack know me so well? How had he known that I wouldn’t grab the belt first, that I wouldn’t locate the pictures out of order? I looked at them again, and this time, flipping them over, I saw tiny numbers written in the bottom right-hand corners. The belt was number one, Alex was number six. But what was I supposed to do with the photo of Alex? Did the picture mean I was supposed to call him?

  Precisely as I thought that, I heard the front door open. What timing. And Alex called out, “You ready?”