The Firm

I thought I'd broken her for a second.

I had brought her to the brink of subspace only to stop and pull back so many times, all I likely had to do to send her over was wait, but as she hung in the wrist restraints, head lolling on her rosy left breast, I was afraid for a moment she'd simply passed out rather than crossed over.

But she'd been a good girl, and was now sailing, enjoying her reward. It was about time for Mine. 

I took her down, picked her up, cradled her in my arms and lay her back on the recovery couch in her little basement dungeon, only to have her open her eyes and whisper "Thank you, Sir."

I wrapped a handy faux-fur blanket around her ample, near-naked frame, kissed her forehead, slipped a finger inside her and triggered her unique, signature, cat-wail orgasm in seconds.

Her recovery was slow and sweet. She was so childlike in this state. I gave her water to sip, enjoyed my wine, and let my hands enjoy her soft skin.

In twenty minutes she was all the way back, giving me her eager "What's next?" expression. 

It is a truism that subs have expectations we Dominants must be ready to fulfill. Failure to plan is planning to fail, and a disappointed submissive is an unhappy submissive.

But we knew each other well, being dear friends of long standing in vanilla life, and had come to understand our mutual needs and rhythms. Sex was a huge part of our play and always capped off our scenes like icing on the cake.

The enormous old Victorian home she was remodeling had many rooms in various stages of restoration, a number of which I'd never seen. So, I conceived a game of hide-and-seek.

"I'll give you a fifteen minute head start, girl," I said, "While I finish off my wine. Then I'll come find you. Go freshen up, change into something slutty you don't mind being torn to shreds and go wait for me in a room in which I've never fucked you. It's time we christen the rest of the house."

"Yes, SIR!" She replied, eagerly, and scampered up the stairs.

***

Smack!

"Eleven..." her voice, quavering and muffled, counted.

Smack!

"Ten-"

"Ten, what?"

"Ten... Sir?"

"Better, now keep counting down."

My pretense for "punishing her," being slow to retrieve the wine bottle, was completely bogus, of course, but transitioning to a scene sometimes needs a catalyst.

And I love administering bare-handed spankings.

It was a good choice. Though older, she had a playful, childlike demeanor I found both charming and arousing. Not a "little." Not a "brat." And certainly not an idiot, but an "innocent" little tart without the slightest shame and delighting in being treated as such.

The redder her cute little apple ass got, the more she wiggled and cooed. I began to notice the black denim-clad knee I had put her over to spank her was developing a wet spot. She was dripping on me.

I slipped a quick finger insider her, got a gasp in return, withdrew it and continued with alternating strokes on each cheek while she counted down.

Always make them count backward, whether spankings or strikes with a flogger or singletail. Counting backward is more disorienting, takes them out of themselves a bit more, a bit faster. Sets up an expectation that you can either fulfill - or completely contradict. 

Sometimes I have them go into negative numbers.

But not this time. Having told her to count back from thirty, she'd gotten fifteen good, solid strokes on both sides. That velvety backside was red as an iron skillet and trembling. She tried to get up, but I held her down, gently rubbing her ass gently - more for My pleasure than for hers, absolutely - but I made soothing noises in her ear just the same, intuiting that she was in this for the attention and the aftercare as much or more than for the impact play itself.

After a moment, I let her up and ordered her into a standing inspection pose, eyes down, fingers interlaced behind her head, feet shoulder width apart.

My earlier inspection had been mostly visual. This time, I let my hands explore every square inch as if making a purchasing decision. She hadn't flinched or objected when I'd entered her before, so, fingers explored here and there. Grabbed ass, squeezed titty, pinched nipple. Slipped a thumb into her pouty little mouth. She began sucking on it wildly. I withdrew it. 

"None of that," I snapped. "Not yet, anyway."

Restraining others is fun, but a scene like this, self-restraint is very rewarding. No rush. Build up to it. 

I pointed to the cuffs hanging from chains nearby. 

"Can you put yourself in those?" I demanded. 

"One, Sir." She said. "You would have to lock the other."

"Let's see you try." 

I sat back down on the bench and watched her struggle to fasten the black leather cuff at her left wrist, having easily placed the right one on herself. I had guesstimated, and was proven correct, that the chains they hung from were almost but not quite close enough. 

After five minutes, her frustration was plain, as was her genuine desire to please me. I stepped over and fastened the left cuff. 

"You did your best, Little One," I said. "As your reward I'll use the big leather flogger instead of that little horsehair job. That thing looks like it stings."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

"Good girl. Now, count down from 50."

I took a sip of wine, put down the glass and began.

[The Conclusion, coming soon.]

'

One of the challenges of being a Dom early on is taking charge and "owning" a space belonging to another. First meetings in the sub's space (not to be confused with subspace) exacerbate that challenge.

And I had never before been in the home of a sub who was so... equipped. Marti's basement was a study in sybaritic delights, and I didn't really come with a plan, much less a kit. I like to improvise, turning ordinary household objects into "pervertables," taking advantage of what I find around me. Redundant, in this case.

Another looming issue I considered in the 45 seconds before Marti would be back with the wine is that there was an immediate, electric and profound sexual attraction between us the moment she opened the door. 

"And that's a problem because...?"

Well, a scene, at least to me, needs a flow, a sequence of events leading up to a climax - sexual or otherwise. And while I am aware that not every BDSM or D/s relationship involves sex, in My world, subs get fucked. It's kinda what they're for.

This one agreed thoroughly, and had made that plain in all our chats, conversation and online play. Three holes, no waiting, and every square inch available.

So while I had every intention of turning this woman inside-out and every confidence she shared that desire - it was a question of timing and what came before - and after.

Then, just as I heard her tiny bare feet padding down the stairs, I realized her playroom was laid out along the periphery in a perfect sequence, from a simple, narrow bench ideal for otk spankings all the way around to eyebolts in the wall configured in the perfect outline of a St. Andrew's cross, and finally, to the breeding table.

Whether organically or deliberately, all the cool, fun stuff was laid out exactly as I would have had I had the private space rather than being an apartment-dweller. 

I smiled.

"Fill me up, put the bottle over on that side-table, girl," I said. "And come here."

During our little getting-to-know-you chat in her living room, I sipping my wine in a wingbacked chair admiring her body and she on her knees on the floor in front of me deliciously close to the source of all male motivations, Marti told me her divorce had been very liberating - we had that in common - and since then she'd spent about six months with a Dom who apparently spent his life traveling the country in an RV training subs. 

Lucky bastard.

"What did you learn?" I asked. 

"Lots of things," she said, "but especially that I was very anal. I never realized it before."

We weren't in the same context at that moment. I had been admiring her home, a grand old Victorian that she - She - had been remodeling and restoring. Amazing work. Her most recent grand opus was completion of a five-person shower with two overhead shower heads and four side nozzles, "for parties."

At that moment I thought "anal" meant she'd learned how fussy she was. Everything just so.

That wasn't it at all.

"I see," I said. "What else?"

"I love restraints but don't really like being tied up with rope. Of course, that's up to You, Sir."

Not a rope bunny, check.

"Limits?"

"Kids, blood scat."

"That's it?"

"Yes, Sir"

As she led me through the house and down to "the Playroom," she gave me the nickle tour. I noticed more of her restoration work. What imagination. A spare bedroom was her current project. I peeked in to see the only completed piece - a built-in queen-sized bed dead center of the room, and raised up high enough to be properly called a dais. The bed was made up. Pillows with quilted shams, bolster, quilt. Odd, and yet very erotic. 

The basement, in contrast, was half finished in casual, 90's-era rumpus room - mismatched furniture pieces and throw rugs, stereo components and TV installed in a long, low cabinet. Casual. Comfortable.

 But the rear half was completely walled off, with a sliding door dead center secured with a padlock and hasp.

She produced a key from somewhere and slid the door open. 

The space was open, unfinished, dark, a little musty, and when she flicked a light switch and the odd combination of black, red and conventional lights came on, the whole place screamed "dungeon."

To be honest, I thought I might be in over my head.

Some interesting carpentry had taken place down here, too. Some kind of modified futon with a big pile of pillows and faux-fur blankets - for recovery, I thought.

A block-and-tackle arrangement hanging from a joist above with a bar like a trapeze - suspension. Several lengths of chain hanging here.and there, one pair with leather cuffs already fixed to them. Something about the size and configuration of a child's picnic table but with very narrow seats and top, each upholstered in black fake leather with about an inch of padding underneath - A breeding table?

A pegboard hung with about half a dozen floggers in several sizes and with falls of various materials - leather, horsehair, even light chainlink.

Good lord, her traveling Dom had been busy. Or had she done all this herself? 

My glass was nearly empty, and we'd left the bottle upstairs. 

"Go get the wine, Marti," I said, in what I hoped was a commanding voice.

'I want to look around."

[More to come]

One of my first forays into BDSM was courtesy of a more experienced sub from my hometown. I had developed an interest following a divorce and had begun to peruse sites like alt.com. I was very surprised to find that there was someone else from my small rural home base that was active, especially as I did and do live in a city some hours away, and so would never have thought of looking in the town where I grew up.

I was younger then, and had an attraction for older women, so, the fact that she was a lithe and lively ten years my senior was an additional plus.

We chatted for a couple of weeks then made a "play date," over the phone. My thought was to get a room, but she said, "Just come to my house, I'm all set up... Sir."

At that point I had no gear, little experience, zero credibility as a Dom and was terrified that my parents would happen to drive by, see my car and wonder why I was there and not at their house.

But I agreed that would be acceptible.

"Any instructions, Sir?" She asked. I immediately felt an electric thrill move through my chakras every time she addressed me in that way. Didn't want to disappoint, so immediately made something up.

"You'll be barely dressed but not bare," I intoned, sounding pretentious as hell, I am sure.

"When I arrive, you'll open the door, eyes downcast and without speaking. You'll usher me to your most comfortable chair, next to which you will have placed a new bottle of red wine - chianti preferred, but anything will do, opened, allowed to breathe, with a clean glass beside it.

You'll then kneel before me in a presentation posture and wait."

"Oh, my God, yes, Sir," and I could hear an excited tremble in her voice. Apparently I'd hit on something.

That has been my ritual for first meetings to this day. 

Because all went according to my spontaneous "plan" that day, she greeted me "dressed" in a black vinyl number modelled, I'm sure, on "Slave Leia," concealing very little, a lascivious little smile, "do me"  eyes, plump in all the right places, barefoot with a pedicure that left nothing to the imagination but incited it at the same time.

My confidence flagged a little but I don't think it showed, nor would she have cared. Plus, I recognized her. We'd been to many of the same hometown functions although we were not acquainted.

She showed me in, sat me down, assumed the agreed upon position. I said nothing, sipped my wine. Perfect. 

Don't buy expensive wine. If you pay more than 12-16 dollars a bottle, you're being cheated. There is a particular chianti I favor that is the house wine at my favorite bistro, but it's hard to find retail, even though it's only about ten dollars a bottle.

She found it.

Then I put her through an inspection routine I cribbed from the internet, not knowing what I was really doing or why, but examining her body the way one would examine a new car was a thrill for both of us.

Then I had her sit at my feet, relax and we talked. I asked her about her experience, likes, dislikes, limits, hard limits, did she have a safe call, what were her expectations for our first session. I needn't have. She was ready and willing, up for anything.

I wasn't sure I was. 

Then I told her frankly I had not brought anything with me, not even so much as a length of rope. 

'That's ok, Sir," she said. 'I have all the gear we need down in my playroom, if you're ready."

Provocative word, "playroom."

We rose and proceeded downstairs.

[More to come]

As this is my first entry, we should get acquainted. I am a seasoned Dom, veteran of munches, slurps, play parties, seminars, a convention or two. I've had long-term subs and owned a slave, whom I still adore although she found the love of her life elsewhere.

I married someone who was ostensibly in the lifestyle, but now we are something somewhat less than vanilla. Happens that way sometimes, more's the pity. I fulfill my responsibilities nevertheless and find my outlets elsewhere. Not "open," our relationship, but there is a tacit agreement not to pry too deeply.

Don't mean to kvetch, she's a good woman who perhaps deserves better. It is, as they say, what it is.

I do not dwell on the past, but instead try to learn from it. I've learned a lot, and when you reach a certain point in life you begin to appreciate the mistakes and failures as much as the triumphs and perhaps want to share lessons learned with others who might benefit.

Most people don't learn from others' mistakes however. They insist on making them themselves.

I did.

So let's talk about life, love and the lifestyle. Let us sit upon the grass, tope the grape and watch the sunset, admire the curve of an elegant body unclothed, and ponder how best to decorate it - with stripes, with ornaments clamped here and inserted there, about the seminal joys of illicit sex and sensuality.

"Come into My parlor," said the...