Hi! Quick little forward from the author here.
This story is primarily a masochistic fantasy. There are other BDSM trappings, and some tenderness as well, but at its core this is a story about being hurt -- in the literal sense of the word. I just wanted to warn you, in case that's not your thing.
On a related note, I should probably say that even though the skeleton of a BDSM relationship is here, the characters in this story aren't playing responsibly. They are naive, reckless, and shouldn't be seen as role models.
That's all. I hope you like it!
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Frying bacon. Mom was trying to tempt me out of bed at a reasonable hour.
And why should that be so hard? Back in the city, at my own place, I'd have been showered and dressed by now. But something about being home -- no, not home, my parent's house -- for the holidays weighed me down. It dragged me back toward an earlier version of myself.
The cold wasn't helping. Forcing my eyes open, staring at the ceiling of my childhood room, I debated. I'd promised myself I would make it to breakfast today. No more slinking down late to sheepishly nibble the cold leftovers Mom had thoughtfully left out. But this was easier planned than done because it seemed winter had arrived during the night. Rolling out of bed in just my panties and t-shirt was going to suck.
Plus, there was my little morning routine. Which my hands, sliding under the failing elastic of my panties, were already starting without having consulted the rest of me.
I let my fingers roam, enjoying the contrast of my own heat compared to the crisp air waiting for me. If Mom was making bacon, she'd be planning pancakes as well. I had a few minutes to waste.
It was nice, touching myself in that limbo between sleep and full wakefulness, sliding in and out of fantasies that were almost dreams. Between my folds, I wasn't yet wet, but that was okay. I imagined my partner -- even better, my assailant -- didn't much care. Dipping down to my entrance, pressing fingers against the resistance of friction, I mulled it over; what would it be like to be taken unprepared? Cold and callous without regard for my readiness. It would hurt, I supposed. But how, exactly? I prodded more insistently, experimenting.
This wasn't the first time my fantasies had taken a turn towards cruelty. Though lately, it had been happening more and more reliably. I'd long passed the point of fighting it, actually learned to embrace it within the private corners of my mind. And tonight, well, I had plans to go even one step further. But first, there was my morning orgasm to attend to.
I intended to cum quick, so I could get down to breakfast. But my intrigue over the idea of being taken dry was ironically foiled by the wetness that soon found my fingertips. I brought it up to my clit. The electricity of first contact was thrilling, as always. But my dark fantasy was now ruined.
I searched for a new one. My self massage was lovely, but without something to wrap my mind around, it was a train with no destination. A pleasant way to spend a morning, if I wanted to be late for breakfast.
There was the possibility that I might just get out of bed and trundle downstairs unsated. I considered it. But found I didn't yet have the willpower to brave the cold. Not that it wasn't going to get me eventually--
Something devious inside my mind prodded me. A fantasy began to take shape.
It coalesced from an icy blizzard. A creature of some sort. Indistinct. Except for the menacing weight between its legs, which hung steaming and hot despite the artic landscape upon which it hunted me.
My prehistoric self scrabbled over jagged ice. Glacial snow caught in the cuffs of her animal skin gloves, while I touched myself to her plight. I pushed my clit erratically and took short gasps of air, trying to tap into her anticipation. Anticipation of what? Of being taken down. Tackled into the snow and skidding on the ice underneath. Ridden the whole time by the weight of something primal.
I looked up but could see only the shadow of my attacker through the thick blizzard. I knew it had claws though, because they were at my waist, gripping the life giving furs that held in my warmth. One jagged bundle of talons pointed at my heart. The others, down, at somewhere equally vulnerable. Its hairy forearms, the only parts of it close enough to resolve clearly through the snow, tensed, preparing to--
I threw the blankets off myself. The chill shocked my system. My panties were down around my ankles and my wetness betrayed me. It felt like it was crystalizing in the cold air. My every muscle was tense, Goosebumps burst along my thighs, and my nipples tried to finally pierce my thread-bare t-shirt.
But none of that mattered. Because my orgasm was here. It rippled out warm and wonderful from where my fantasy, and I, were pierced. Behind a layer of chill moisture it found our hot, needy, centers. It burned there, melting the ice from within.
I smelled pancakes. Mom would be cooking them in the bacon fat. It was time for breakfast.
-----
"Don't cook for me tonight, okay? I'm gonna go out." Later that afternoon, I twirled through the kitchen, giving Mom a peck on the cheek, while also keeping a wary eye on the dough she was kneading. My outfit, collected around high socks and a short but frilly skirt, was mostly black. I was quite pleased with how it had all come together. But it boasted no resistance to errant puffs of flour.
"That's great, sweetie. What are you up to?" If Mom had any feelings about the strip of thigh I was showing, she kept them well hidden.
"Oh, just meeting Sadie in town. We might go dancing." I lied easily. There are some things you don't grow out of.
The truth was, I had no plans to meet my best friend Sadie, or anyone else I knew tonight. In fact, I dearly hoped not to see a single familiar face.
-----
The show was being hosted by a local art gallery. I'd never been inside, but it seemed a classy place. It was well maintained and I'd idly noted their more conventional exhibits numerous times while walking by. Tonight though, someone had drawn deep purple drapes over the windows. My heart thrummed, knowing that whatever was behind those blinds, it was too salacious for public view.
I cast a quick glance up and down the street. Detecting no familiar faces in the crowd, I ducked inside.
It had been my intention to enter with no expectations. The flyers had suggested a safe kinky experience. And I was a woman with a nascent, but gnawing, interest in such things. What more did I need to know? Still, one prejudice I'd been subconsciously holding was immediately shattered. I had not expected the gallery to be so brightly lit.
I felt spotlit and exposed. And my worries that I might run into someone who knew me briefly flared. But they were soon forgotten, brushed aside by the gala itself.
The gallery was perfect. Where dull still lives and portraits usually hung, the canvases now hosted scenes much more to my tastes. Everywhere I turned, men and women, strung up, chained down, or otherwise restrained stared back at me. Some were oil on canvas, like the stuffy art they'd replaced, but just as many of the displays were framed photographs, blown up to nearly lifelike proportions.
A black and white of a young man drew my eye. He was on his knees, reaching out to me like he was begging for help. The photographer had caught the whip behind him mid-swing -- not a whip, a cat, I corrected myself. It had a multitude of tails, some rendered in perfect focus, others only blurry suggestions of motion and imminent impact.
I had, of course, seen porn before. Okay, being a woman of the digital age, I'd seen a lot of porn before. But this gallery hadn't just been stocked with my fantasies. It was also full of people. People like me, who might understand the strange kinship I found in the fearful eyes of the kneeling man.
A glass of wine from the bar steadied my nerves enough that I could take myself on a tour of the gallery. It was bigger than I'd initially thought. And I was surprised, though far from disappointed, to discover that not all of the exhibits were inanimate. In a few corners, divided from the wandering viewership by velvet theatre barriers, little scenes of intimacy played out. None of the players were truly naked -- bare breasts and toned midriffs at most -- but nudity wasn't really the point.
On the floor, in front of me, a girl about my age gasped as her partner pulled the end of a crimson rope. The intricate pattern of diamonds he'd wove around her pulled taut all together. Her arms levered back to touch at the elbows, presenting her breasts as if to accentuate her hard, eager, nipples. Even her hair was part of the tie, forcing her to bare her throat to us watchers. But mostly, I noticed how the rope bit into her, raising geometric shapes in her skin. When the man released the tension, they remained momentarily outlined in white, before flashing red, as the blood poured back in.
"First time?"
Next to me was a man. He was tall, wearing mostly black except for dark blue jeans with a few factory provided tears. The white cotton lines of the rips matched nicely with the smattering grey around his temples.
I resisted the urge to run. "Yeah," I said. "Really obvious?"
He smirked. "You look the part. Just, pick your jaw off the floor and nobody will know." He tapped my chin with a long, slender, finger. "Can I get you another drink?"
I looked down at my wine glass. It was clutched, empty, to my chest.
A woman in a red dress breezed into the viewing spot I'd just stepped away from. She was elegant in her red dress and something complicated and silver holding up her hair. Even though she was alone, she looked perfectly comfortable, mouth closed in an easy smile. So why was this tall man paying attention to me, and not her? She was closer to his age too.
"Actually, I was just going to check out over there," I said, nodding my head at another of the live exhibits.
To my annoyance. The tall man walked with me. "I'm Calum, by the way," he said.
"Jemma." I aimed to sound disinterested, but not cold. Apparently, I didn't succeed. Calum took a place next to me, just behind the crowded first row of people. I had to keep leaning away from him to stop from brushing against his arm. Despite the crowd, a vague unease had started to grow in me. Which was a shame, because it was distracting me from a very interesting exhibit.
