Angie's Awaening

Angela Wentworth explores her submissive side with Khalidah's guidance after experiencing the mock execution described in Executrix Khalidah. Some references will be clearer after reading that story, but I'd like to think this one can stand on its own if it must. Bear with me in the middle - we do eventually return to the opening scene. Angie herself, inescapably bound, only has to wait a minute or two!

******

Please Jesus don't let me come

- expletive or prayer, I couldn't tell. My supplication was heartfelt but the words swirled away, submerged in my churning emotional storm. The electric cattle prod used so effectively on Bev hung all too conveniently by my side.

The instant she sees me start to climax she'll use that prod to enforce my obedience

, I imagined.

I can't possibly escape

, I assured myself, straining against my bonds. I did not come, not at that moment. I prayed a silent prayer of thanks, my tempestuous personal journey nearing landfall at last.

Half an hour earlier I'd been free. That soon changed - by then I'd have been dreadfully disappointed if it hadn't. Khalidah directed me to strip completely and place my clothes in the basket by the wall. As I undressed she cast off her own covering, exposing all but the tiny portion concealed by her narrow leather g-string, just as she had during my sister's and my mock execution. I'd emerged alive of course, but shaken. Trying to come to terms with the traumatic experience, I'd written about it in my journal, recalling as much as I could - this was my description of Khalidah's unveiling.

A compact, perfectly conditioned Iranian body builder, her powerful muscles ripple sensuously as she moves. No wonder she can hurt us so much. Bizarre, because her entire body is covered, from her ankles to her partially hidden pussy, then upward over her excellently proportioned, tightly domed breasts, across her shoulders and down her arms to her wrists, with an extraordinarily elaborate tattoo. Thorns and roses intertwine with grotesque beasts and every imaginable symbol, woven artistically in every possible direction on her olive-colored skin. My eyes can't focus on one place - the meandering vines lead me helplessly over her body, unable to concentrate on any one part, though each design seems perfectly at one with its location. Phoenix wings rise around her breasts, fire from her loins, and everywhere, the twisting vines and thorns tie it all together, much as we are tied in our circle of sorrow.

I stood naked before her, not yet bound this time, but feeling just as vulnerable as I stared at her lithe, muscular gorgeousness, transfixed by her body's splendid depiction of heaven-hell. The present vanished, subsumed in the memory of my terror, in my hopes and fears for this evening's unfolding.

She rotates, as we did, giving us a view of her back, equally stunning, the dragons on her shoulder blades guiding me to her bulging biceps, the prime mover of my chastisement, the thorned vines leading me down to her circled wrists, a short, naked step from there to her hands, the hands that caressed me in preparation, the hands I expect soon to end my life.

I shivered from the sudden chill of air against my bare skin, from my recollection of the execution scene, but mostly from nervous anticipation - was this really going to be anything like I'd been fantasizing, this time choosing to be here, knowing I'd emerge intact, imagining I'd be roughed up plenty - I hoped so but I still didn't really understand why.

"Get on the examination table and lift your legs into the stirrups," Khalidah commanded. Lured on by her reassuring smile, I complied with only a moment's hesitation. As I lay back she reached for a hank of thick black cord and doubled it, then waved it tantalizingly over my chest, gradually lowering it to brush delicately across my engorged nipples. Whispering seductively, Khalidah cast her net.

"Do you desire to give yourself to me, to have me bind you, to do with your body as I please, to bend your mind to my will. How do you answer?"

"Yes mistress, I do," I replied with considerable apprehension, recalling Khalidah's furious response when Bev answered similarly a few weeks earlier.

"Cross your wrists."

I did as I was told, trying not to seem too eager as I glanced at the generous supply of rope piled on top of the rolling cabinet nearby. Maintaining her winsome smile, Khalidah circled my overlapped wrists several times, then looped several more turns at right angles before tying off the ends, She drew my arms back behind my head, fastening the neat black bundle to the end of the bench.

"How do you feel," Khalidah asked quietly, bending over my bound arms to kiss me gently. "Shall I continue? Don't answer if it's yes." Allowing a few seconds for my silent consent, she eased herself down, crouching to my left.

"Here goes, get ready to ride," she whispered below my bent-back elbow. "Be sure to tell me if you start getting numb." Pressing my arm aside with her forehead she licked my neck just behind my ear, excruciatingly erotically, for the briefest instant, then rose and walked past the stirrups, rounding my upraised foot to take station between my legs.

"Good, you've shaved well enough," she announced in a more business-like tone after giving me a quick inspection. "Time to prepare your presentation." She slid her hands under my buttocks, lifting me just enough to tuck a leather pillow underneath, elevating my smoothed pubis beckoningly. Proceeding with competent efficiency, she fastened me to the stirrups with three turns of rope above and below each knee, finishing with three more around each foot. Her smile shifted to a sinister grin as she gave me just a moment to anticipate her next move, then began turning a crank beneath the stirrups, ever so slowly at first, then faster, forcing my legs further and further apart until finally, unable to bear any more, I begged her to stop. She did, after two more turns. Permitting me a little longer, perhaps thirty seconds of my rapidly liquefying sense of time, to savor my defenselessness, she spread me open, taping my labia tight to my thighs on either side.

She completed my binding with a half-dozen loops around each thigh. Snugging each turn against the one before, first on one side, then the other, she squeezed my all-too-compliant flesh to the stirrup-hinges, stretching the tapes, spreading me yet wider. With my vulva's forlorn sentinels summarily dismissed, my clitoris prominently displayed, I plunged headfirst into submission as the bench tilted, raising my hips high, my head dropping toward the floor.

"Give me a minute - I need to use the toilet. Don't go anywhere," Khalidah joked as the bathroom's mirrored door slid open. "Use the time wisely."

*******

My previous date with Khalidah was quite a bit more vanilla, with a hint of cardamom.

I'll make you dinner

, Khalidah texted when we made our plans.

Meet me at 73 Mason Street

. My emotional storm churned then too, maybe a category or two lower, as I walked up the street - 81, 79, 77. For years I'd suppressed my 'S & M thoughts', thinking they made me somehow abnormal, or at the very least not the kind of woman I thought I wanted to be. After the mock execution there could be no more turning away - I knew I had to confront my fantasies, confront myself. Perhaps at last I'd found the right people to help me do it. 75, 73 - the glossy black front door, so deadpan, stood before me forbiddingly; it looked just like all the others on the street though the names next to the mailbox assured me I'd arrived at the right place.

Jen and Liz live there, but it will be just the two of us eating. We can talk more privately than at a restaurant - I'll explain during dinner why we shouldn't get together at your place or mine, but don't worry, it's simple, no big deal.

At that time I didn't know the pet name 'House of Bondage' Liz and Jen used for the elegant town house where they lived with their housemates Sara and Michael. The stately brick house-fronts marching up the street projected quiet repose - who would know the adventures which took place inside this one, unless invited to participate.

BTW

, she'd texted earlier that day,

they're the proprietors of JenLiz Productions, but you won't be tied up or shanghaied into a movie. Try to arrive around 7. Message me a few minutes before you get there

. Khalidah didn't live at HOB, but a star JenLiz model would surely be there frequently - it wasn't odd, I decided, for her to invite me to meet her there. Paralyzed by indecision, I took a deep breath, permitting the frozen music of the streetscape to embrace me with its orderly counterpoint, then I scaled the steps and rang the bell.

Khalidah answered the door. Her black wool abaya covered all but her captivating smile, but once I was inside and the door shut she cast off her covering, reprising her dramatic gesture during the mock execution, though it wasn't quite as dramatic as it had been then. Underneath, Khalidah had on a snug yellow long sleeved T-shirt which, along with quite ordinary rip-free tight-fitting jeans, hugged her beautifully contoured body, eloquently telegraphing her powerful musculature. It was left to me to imagine the tattoos I knew snaked over her entire surface below her neckline, but these were quite invisible for now. Khalidah grasped both my hands and drew me close to kiss me invitingly, chastely, square on the lips.

She led me down the hall toward the back of the house, past the living room with its silent Steinway grand, past the dining room, the big mahogany dining table cluttered with sketches and set models. Around the table a lively group of women and men sported everything from elegant formality to edgy street-safe kinkiness as they engaged earnestly in their business - no one looked our way as we passed.

"We'll eat in the kitchen - we'd be lost in the dining room anyway. They're planning a JenLiz shoot but I'm not cast in it."

What a kitchen I suddenly found myself in. Dominated by a massive professional range, surrounded by acres of black granite counters, the table in the center looked rather modest, until I counted eight chairs around it - we could easily be lost in here too. A peal of laughter reverberated from the dining room, interrupting my kitchen contemplation - I turned to look in the direction of the sound. A rousing conversation resumed as the laughter died away.

"Those discussions can get pretty intense - everyone has a different idea how it should go at first," Khalidah laughed. I wondered if some months ago a similar meeting took place here, Khalidah's voice resounding with the others, my name and my sister's near the top of the cast list. That unsettling thought was interrupted as Sara stepped in to take away two chairs with a quick apology, closing the door to the dining room behind her. The six remaining now looked quite intimate! Still overwhelmed, I reminded myself that I wasn't exactly poor anymore, after Barbara's generosity. While I still couldn't afford anything like this, most of these people couldn't afford it either, by themselves; it was definitely a communal project and I shouldn't feel out of place.

"Sit down and make yourself comfortable," Khalidah urged, pointing to the end of the table furthest from the door Sara just exited. She'd already set out two white linen placemats, decorated with intricate calligraphy.

Like the floor of the cell I'd shared with Bev and my sister

, I thought, shivering with excitement. Though the table accommodated three chairs down each side and one at each end, it wasn't all that wide; the white laminate top shone softly as Khalidah turned the lights down to an intimate glow. The adjacent discussion now muffled by the heavy chestnut door mingled with the susurration of fans and compressors, the built-in refrigerator and freezer plus God knows how many beverage coolers busy in the background. Khalidah turned on music, just loud enough to submerge the noise below my consciousness, creating a very calm, very conventional ambiance, so at odds with my feelings inside.

"That's a prayer of thanksgiving to Ahura Mazda," she said, "and a blessing on our meal together. It's older than Islam."

She finished setting our places, put out wine and sparkling water, then sat across the corner next to me, her back to the gigantic range. I thanked her as she poured wine into my glass, then filled her own with water. From the delightful, piquant aroma I gathered the cooking was finished.

"I'm not particularly religious as you've probably guessed," she continued, smiling, "but I do maintain some observances - I don't drink alcohol for example - but that doesn't mean you shouldn't."

The Chardonnay she served me was delicious,

slightly citrous, accented with a silky texture and hints of spicy oak

, I mused, recalling wine guides I'd read. So ordinary, so trendily conventional, so right for tonight. I'd been marched terrified yet undeniably excited to execution by this remarkable woman who then supervised my elaborate high-tech binding, flogged me and prepared me for strangulation, and here I was, meeting with her again, hoping to understand the side of myself I'd always avoided, and we were sitting down to a simple meal as if our lives weren't in any way different from any one else's.

It wasn't so ordinary, of course. This wine was especially good - someone here knew how to select wine - it probably wasn't even that expensive, just carefully chosen. I'd made sure not to arrive ravenous, but my appetite grew as the savory smells mingled with the wine's flavor and the magical surroundings. Khalidah's meal would be every bit as special, I was sure. I didn't expect any other kind of specialness this evening - Khalidah's artfully worded invitation made it clear that she would not tie me up tonight, even if I wanted her to. We'd most likely just enjoy food and conversation.

"I didn't choose the wine," Khalidah assured me. "That's Bev's department. Do you like it?" I assured her I did, very much. Khalidah knew that the mock execution had disturbed me deeply - it was her suggestion to write about it; that had already helped me a lot. She'd read my account at my request - I was rather proud of how it came out in retrospect, and I asked her reaction.

"I'm astonished you remembered my words so accurately - I couldn't resist checking them against the script," she laughed, "but my background story isn't exactly as I related it. A lot of that was theater." Observing my frown, she reached around the table to take my hand and look me gently in the eyes.

"Angie, I understand it wasn't theater the way you experienced it. I apologize deeply that you were so terrified. But I sensed during the scene, and certainly while reading your account, that for you it was more than just a harrowing experience. Wasn't it?"

"It was a lot more" I replied quietly.

"I'll try to help you understand that. The script was mostly written by Bev, though your aunt Barbara specified certain details of Bev's original story which had to be included - too bad you couldn't be at the meeting with the lawyers to review it for compliance to her will!" We both laughed heartily, though I had work awfully hard to imagine

that

scene.

Gazing intently, Khalidah brought me back to earth. "My story wasn't altogether different, though. I was never a slave, but as a teenage girl I sometimes felt like one. My family wasn't poor, I was an only child and I don't have any brothers to sell myself for - quite a lot of fibs! If you want I'll tell you more about what it was really like for me growing up, but first let's eat."

She rose from her seat and turned to the monstrous range. Opening one of the ovens, she reached into the cavernous space to take out a handsome serving dish decorated with blue filigree, vaguely reminiscent of her tattoos. I didn't feel any blast of heat; the oven was just keeping it warm. She placed it on the table between us, got out another smaller, plainer dish of basmati rice, then closed the oven, shut it off and sat back down.

"I'm sure this range is great when you're used to it, but I prefer to cook with my own stove and my own spice rack in my own kitchen - this is intimidating even for me!" she joked. "I made a Fesenjan - it's a kind of stew with pomegranates and walnuts. I hope you like it. It's a very traditional Persian dish."

The first taste of Khalidah's savory creation sealed my admiration for this extraordinary woman. The rich warmth of the toasted walnuts contrasted beautifully with the sharp pomegranate molasses. The second bite made me wish I'd been less proper and let myself arrive thoroughly ravenous. What other spices had she used? Saffron? A tiny bit of cinnamon? Its flavor melded delightfully with the basmati. She'd give me the recipe if I asked, I was sure, but I doubted I could achieve this perfection in a lifetime.

"I don't usually make it until fall, but summer's nearly over - I wanted to give you a taste of the world I grew up in. The way they run the AC we can imagine it's fall in here already."

"This is absolutely fabulous! It must have taken hours."

"It's not something you throw together after work, but fortunately for you I had today off - let's enjoy it together."

As we ate Khalidah told me more of her story. She knew when she was still quite young that she felt differently about many things than her friends. She realized when she was twelve that she was more attracted to girls than boys, but that wasn't so remarkable, she quickly figured out. What disturbed her was her reaction to what took place with distressing regularity around her. While she was as horrified as anyone at the sight of someone being publicly whipped, or hearing descriptions of tortures in the prisons, she couldn't help simultaneously feeling an unaccountable thrill - what would it feel like to actually be doing that to someone? Similar scenes in the few movies her family was still able to see, where she knew no-one was really being hurt, aroused her acutely, especially scenes involving people tied up and flogged. For relief she turned to weightlifting and bodybuilding. She couldn't talk to anyone about what she was feeling, not even her parents, but they were well-educated and insisted on continuing their daughter's education into secondary school in spite of the suspicion it aroused. She threw herself into her studies. School gave her access to libraries which hadn't been completely purged of material deemed unorthodox, and she learned that she might be unusual, but she wasn't unique.

"I begged my parents to let me go abroad for college. It turned out they were wondering how to ask me the same thing."

Khalidah got up and walked behind me - I swiveled in my chair to see what she was doing. When I'd entered the kitchen I was so overwhelmed by the equipment that the elegant french doors Khalidah just opened hadn't even registered.

"I think it's cooled off outside. Let's have fresh air."

A pleasant summer evening breeze wafted in from a small flagstone patio, lush with perennials growing in raised beds around the sides. A series of espaliered dwarf pears adorned the otherwise blank brick wall of the adjoining house - I wondered idly if trees experienced bondage at all like humans did. Khalidah touched a switch; a small fountain in the center sprang to life, the gentle burbling adding to the other domestic sounds. She returned and sat back down.

"My father was a physician. He loved me, and my mother." Khalidah looked away from me to hide a tear.

"Your parents are no longer alive?" I asked, still trying to absorb all I'd just heard.

"No. They didn't beg me to return like I said in the enactment - quite the reverse. I hoped to get them here, but my mother was ill. The journey became more treacherous by the month. Finally they attempted it and they were killed - it was something of an accident I was told. Many others made it out - I've learned from close friends of theirs that they died instantly...