Basement Session

This is my first attempt at BDSM. There is a middle portion broken off by dividers that is mostly description and background of the situation. If you are only interested in reading about the sexual encounter, you may wish to skip it.

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He was her's. He was her play toy. He was her lifelike, human-sized ken doll. And at the moment, there was nothing he could do about it. Further there was nothing he could do gain a sense of what was happening. He had no control. He was in submission.

His mind wandered over and over, trying to find a loophole out of the circle. His senses were completely neutralized.

Vision? Check. The tight blindfold blocked any photon from entering his view.

Touch? Check. His hands were very aggressively bound to the headboard of the bed. She had gotten stricter tonight; he couldn't move his wrists an inch. Damn, why did he have to make such resilient hand cuffs, he thought to himself. (his feet too were bound, to the footboard).

Sound? Check. She had fitted him with earplugs. He toyed with the notion of letting one "slip" out, but he remembered his punishment from last time. Not physical torment, but emotional agony. That single instance, his cavalier attempt was immediately refuted, as she quickly straddled his hips, leaned forward aiming her lips to his open ear, and stated in one swift, confident breath, "you try this on me again, and I'll stop right this second, and leave your pathetic ass here to rot for the next three days." The fear in his mind screamed at him not to question if she was bluffing. Consider it a part of his training, he had validated.

Smell? Check. She had learned over time, his sense of smell was keen, and could detect exactly where she was. It was her wet pussy that was the needle in the haystack that he always seemed to find. After several experiments, she learned to neutralize his nose by over-stimulating it by spraying the room with a combination of her favorite perfume and febreze (and what he hadn't discovered, custom-made silicone gel-lined panties).

Taste? Check. She was smarter than to get close enough for him to put his lips on her (the weighted dog collar he wore made sure he didn't try to lean up for a taste whenever she was nearby).

Instead, he lay there, waiting. Waiting. His mind would run a mile a second during this Anticipation. He knew that her ego thrived from it. She milked the Anticipation for everything she could. He could feel her eyes staring on his cock. Excuse me, Her cock. He had trained his mind not to refer to it as his cock in The Basement, something she had taught him early on. She would watch it until it signaled to her that he needed punishment. There in lied the unpredictability of the Anticipation. Her internal random encryption was uncrackable. In this instance, she always outsmarted him.

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Meet tonight's protagonist: Khaseen. 6'1", 200lbs, stocky, former football player-esq build. Broad, toned shoulders, a tiny bulge of a beer gut, and a toned lower half. Deep brown, milk chocolate complexion, the kind that melts in your mouth, accentuated further by his preference to shave everything. Big, round, bold, dark brown eyes. Constant facial hair that reminded others of a 5 o'clock shadow no matter when he shaved. Wide, long, bulbous nose. Proportional lips, rough from biting, red from the constant blood rush. Short, unstylish, generic Supercuts hair. Big, thick hands, with roughened fingertips and palms. Clearly, he wasn't built to be submissive. God meant him to be a Dominant, alpha male.

Meet tonight's antagonist (a term meant only to endear our sweet, devilish Sadist): Deepika. 5'4", 130lbs. 34C breasts, sized medium panties, and sized 7 dress. Her skin was two shades lighter from his milk chocolate tone, what her make up brand labeled a Medium Beige. She didn't believe in tan lines. Her skin was unnaturally smooth, what a childhood with a fashion-centric Nazi mother would typically dictate. She was proud to show off her feminine shoulders, but only her shoulders. She wasn't an exhibitionist. She was proud of her body, but was raised never to show it; again the Nazi Dictate.

Her eyes were a soft, hazel blend of brown with full contrasting lashes, proportional to her frame. Her eyebrows were sculpted to perfection, not a single hair out of place. Her nose was curvier than she had liked, but did not detract from the rest of her face. Her lips were always pouty, full of god's collagenous blessing. They were always a shade of intense red, again from her favorite make up provider. She wore her hair short, a provocative angle from the shallowness in the back to the lengthy displacement in the front, nearly touching her shoulders. What celebrities referred to as the Bob cut. It was always straightened, a product of spending a half hour every morning in the bathroom.

It had been her smile that gave Khaseen the courage to talk to her in their junior year elective Asian American Fiction course. Not the smile she had given him when she glanced at him during class, but the smile on her face when answering questions for the professor. She knew she was smart; she was confident in her opinions and wasn't afraid to share any of them. But she was also charming and courteous in her responses. She didn't act like a know-it-all. It was this characteristic that pushed him to interact with her, guarded from an embarrassing rejection.

She politely agreed to a first date drink after their second exam. It was an enjoyable evening, and as we now know, the two became a serious couple. They are now 3 years into their marriage, in love as ever.

The Basement was a clever concoction between the two. They bought their first home together 6 months after their marriage. Having gone to school out east, they were big fans of the colonial home design, and were fascinated by the basement space. However, they moved back home to California (read: earthquake country) where basements are a rare entity. One of the reasons they chose their particular home was a unique storage closet the size of a child's bedroom on the ground floor behind the garage and laundry room that reminded them of a basement space.

As newly-weds, they argued for weeks how to occupy this space. He wanted to make it his wine cellar. She wanted it as a dressing room. As their every argument became more and more tense, the sex heated up. They were introducing themselves to the world of Bondage and Submission, and they both shared a growing interest in it. They took many turns being the Sadist and the Masochist.

They were intelligent beings, and did a good job of separating their extracurricular activity from their day-to-day lives. They were by nature peaceful and patient. If anything, their arguments were full of passive-aggression, with fights ending with one leaving to retire to a separate bedroom. They usually made up over breakfast the following morning, apologizing for their often ridiculous indiscretions.

Because of this dipole nature of their characters and interest in BDSM, they weren't able to practice this hobby as often as their brains fantasized, as their lips lacked inertia to vocalize to the other. That's when the idea of The Basement sprang.

They would designate the coveted space as a hobby room, a Dungeon, of sorts. They stocked The Basement with an efficient queen bed with sturdy headboard and footboard, a full body-length mirror and a key-lock dresser. They improved the sound-proofing of the room. The dresser was amply stocked with various floggers, restraints, sex toys, clamps, etc. Many of them were hand-made, as both loved to put their engineering backgrounds to use. The bottom drawer contained outfits. A first aid kit was kept in the closet, along with various useful textiles.

They set up a few rules.

1)Entering the room requires one to forget about the outside world. Transformation is required.

2)Inside the room, one person is assigned the Dominant, and the other the Submissive.

3)These roles are assigned by the subtle, encoded sign on the front door. Gender is decided by color. The Dominant is noted by letters, while the Submissive is noted by numbers.

4)Silence is to be maintained in the room. Only carefully chosen words are allowed. This rule will be enforced according to the Dominant's discretion.

5)Safe word to stop is "Children." Use of this safe word means all activities will stop immediately. The Submissive is then given the power to reinitiate, by choosing to remain or leave. The Dominant is not allowed to reinitiate nor engage the Submissive until a decision is made.

6)Apologies are never permitted.

7)Frequent discussions of the activities that occur in The Basement are discouraged.

8)Open wounds and visible bleeding are an automatic stopping point.

The intensity of their sessions seemed to increase with each trial in The Basement. Over the course of the previous two and a half years, they had alternated, almost equally, between the Dominant and the Submissive. They seemed to use it only a few times a month, but typically in a concentrated fashion. There was a period after an unpleasant vacation with the in-laws and the topic of grandchildren that prompted twelve consecutive sessions in The Basement.

Over the course of these roughly thirty months, the safe word was uttered twice by her, and once by him. They found that rule seven was the hardest to follow. They amended it slightly, to include a once a week, Saturday or Sunday morning, coffee conversation about their sessions. They discussed what they enjoyed, what they didn't enjoy, and explored creative opportunities for the future. Critical comments were discouraged in these conversations.

And the format really worked. They introduced each other to various fetishes and bondage styles. Their normal sex life was fantastic. Their love was growing.

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He was still waiting. It was the Anticipation that she yearned for. That control. And watching Her cock during this anticipation. She slithered around the room, to prevent him from knowing where she was. But Her cock knew where she was. It always pointed to her. Waiting for her response.

Her eyes were glued to the cock's bulbous head. Her left hand was grasping a switch. Something she had whittled from homegrown bamboo. She had carved the word "Bitch" into the handle, and her index finger was playing with the indent of the capital B. The length of the switch was parallel to her toned left thigh. Her breathing was silent; her body refused to stir. Her eyes were fixated at the tip of Her erect cock. She was waiting for the first ripple of involuntary PC muscle contraction. She saw Her cock twitch, starting from the base, and surging through the 6" shaft and cock head, all occurring during the span of a few milliseconds. Her discipline had taught her to catch it.

Swat!

The latter 4" end of the switch landed on his lateral right muscular thigh.

His first thought, even before the rush of nerve stimulation, was that she was on his right, near the dresser. He remembered she was wearing a navy blue corset with yellow intricate lacy trim, with matching yellow hip-hugger thong. Her matching yellow lacy garter belt held up navy blue fine mesh stockings. A brief picture flashed in his mind, an image of her in these garments holding the switch in her hand standing next to the dark mahogany 5-chest drawer.

Then his nerves fired off. The latency was enough to allow the picture to ghost for microseconds. But his thigh muscles were burning from the sensation. The milliseconds of contact with the wooden switch created a flushing of his flesh, followed by the glowing of an acute inflammation of burning red blood along the site of contact. At that moment, all he could feel was the burning sensation.

It was the release of dopamine in his brain that released the block on his processing abilities and caused him to doubt the image in his head. There had been a wait of almost 5 minutes from when she had cut off his senses to his first punishment (he often counted to slow down his thoughts). She could have changed her outfit entirely, to screw with his head (certainly she had done it in the past). What could she have changed into? He wondered.

His analysis went to the switch as the rush of endorphins overwhelmed the brief calm in his nerves. His skin radiated pain over his entire surface. In even those milliseconds of contact, he was sure he had felt organic wood against his thigh. That's how precise his training was. The intensity and surface area of the pain in his thigh made him sure it was a switch. Could it be the Bamboo Bitch, that she loved so much, or the Rattan Rig, that he preferred? From the moment of inertia still rippling in his thigh, he guessed it was the Bitch.

This thought process didn't last long. Less than 45 seconds later, there it was again.

Smack!

Instantly his mind was desperate to process any sensation it could, and it was the smell of her perfume. Was she close to him? Or was it merely the perfume in the air? Had she even wore perfume today? His memory failed him. That was the purpose of the Anticipation. To play tricks on his mind.

His nerve latency caught up. This time, they located the violated skin to his left lateral, upper pelvic bone. This time the pain sharply dug into his bone. Because of this, the instrument left no evidence of its indecent exchange with his skin. It was also partly due to his darker complexion.

The pain was more substantial than the previous strike. She must have put more effort into it. It caused chaos in his mind. His brain was unsure whether to prioritize processing the pain or his confusion of the situation. The strike was so surgical, he was now convinced she had to be on his left side, standing near the closet. Were the doors open behind her?

No, the agony fired back. Who cares if the window is open, the nerves in your pelvis are yearning for blood flow, his brain pleaded. With the rush of endorphins, this round was clearly won by the pain. He couldn't even focus enough to decipher the leather padded crop she used.

The inability to process thoughts subsided as the dopamine surged. He felt vibration to his right as the springs of the mattress flexed, suggesting she had mounted the bed. He next felt a cool breeze over his bare, hairless chest. Immediately following, he felt human tissue surround his neck, above the thin, leather dog collar. It was her bare hand. As he was processing the image of her bare hands, a new sensation arose.

Her right hand cradled Her cock. Her thin, delicate, dry, cool hand wrapped strongly around his quickly growing cock. But she merely held it. Her grasp was not forceful, but stern. Her fingers absorbed the involuntary contractions shuddering through Her cock from the temperature change.

Meanwhile, her left hand maintained its position over his neck. It was a contrast to the left. Her grip was soft, merely stimulating his skin, massaging it. He deduced she wasn't after controlled breath play, but merely the power. And the view. He envisioned an almighty goddess, hovering above him, with her hand around the throat of her nemesis, contemplating mercy.

Except, this goddess still had her hand around his cock. No no, Her cock. She held this position for a few minutes.

The anticipation was torture. His mind was screaming at her to stroke his cock (correction, Her cock). A slight rub was all he was asking for at this point. But instead, she was moving in the scale of microns. She wasn't interested in getting him off. She was interested in getting herself off.

His frustration escalated. His brain was now screaming to his lips to move, and say something. But he knew better. Saying something would only set him back further. He was fortunate, because he seemed to have passed her test.

She removed her right hand, and rotated her right knee over Khaseen's torso and chest, and placed it to his left. He could feel her stocking rubbing against his bare sides, affirming the image of her outfit from earlier. But was it correct?

He felt the heat from her pussy on the center of his chest. Only, he couldn't sense any fabric between her bare pussy and his chest. The realization in his head that she was wearing no panties opened the floodgates. The adrenaline shock flowed through his body. His cock grew even more, his cum boiling within. His mind lost handle of the situation, and started to flash images of a panty-less Deepika. His mouth began to salivate at the growing prospect of tasting her wetness. His nose was certain it could now smell her sex.

She slid her left hand to the back of his neck, and swiftly removed the dog collar. He took this as a sign he was allowed to lean his head forward to reach around for a taste. Instead, her left hand replaced the collar on his neck, holding him down. This time, her grip was more aggressive, dictating to him that she was still in control. He was only allowed to move when she wanted him to. As she removed her hand, she playfully slapped him, creating more turbulence in his mind.

She never does that, he speculated. Not when there is so much Anticipation. Something's not right. Something's different.

Deepika slid her fingers through his short hair, to the back of his head. She unclasped the blindfold, and a stream of photons hit Khaseen's eager eyes. Her hand supported his tilted head. His dilated pupils began to quickly contract, but initially all he could see were blurry colors. As his lens focused light onto his retina, his heart sank. He could feel his salivating mouth dry up all of a sudden. The diameter of his esophagus shrank.

Staring him straight in the eyes was a 7" disappointment named Bandit. His hopes of tasting her fell with his shocked jaw. This was the meaning of that playful slap; she knew Bandit would pit a knot in his stomach.

Bandit was a 7" long, 1.75" circumference medium thickness, dark toned, realistic, silicone dildo. It was purchased 4 months ago, but Deepika had yet to utilize it. She had unveiled Bandit the weekend she purchased it, but Khaseen quickly replied the safe word. It was the only time to date he had used the term.

The next coffee session, they talked about it. He had played with anal toys before, but never anything quite so big. Deepika had over-anticipated his adventurousness and thought he would quickly make the jump to a large strap-on. They made a deal that Bandit would be a goal, that Khaseen would work his way up to the 7 incher.

Khaseen's stomach cried foul and begged him to utter the safe word. But he was determined to overcome Bandit this time around.

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth for his eager Sadist. She pulled slightly on the back of his head, the same way he had the last time they were in The Basement. Khaseen's focus was too strongly on Bandit to appreciate the allusion.

She noticed his dry mouth from the surprise, and feigned mercy. She helped him lubricate his oral cavity by dribbling her abundant saliva through his hesitant lips. The saliva fell at a rate he considered a violation of gravity, taking its time before it contacted him. A second stream quickly followed the first. The bubbly, viscous mass dripped onto his lower lip, juxtaposing his dry, cracked, rough tissue. He instinctively licked it off, coating his tongue with the faint, diluted taste of her sweet lips.

As Bandit's tip touched Khaseen's flat tongue, his own saliva started to trickle in. The taste was surprising to Khaseen. It was sweet. She must have coated Bandit with cherry-flavored lube, to entice Khaseen to continue to swallow the silicone mold.

He had done this once before. He remembered what she savored from this exchange was eye contact. The sparkle in his timid eyes was what gave reassurance to her grasp of control. This too was the same entity Khaseen savored most when the roles were switched. He stared into her electric eyes, only wishing the conditions had been reversed.