All day, it had appeared that something stressful occupied her mind. The usually bubbly, cheery Sara was disturbingly quiet, a strong atmosphere of uncertainty surrounding her. I had initially simply given her plenty of space, not wanting to pry my fiancée into telling me what worried her so for fear of pushing her even further away from me. But by evening, I felt I had to do something to try to get her to either open up to me or at least lift her spirits a little, so I suggested we go out to dinner.
We agreed upon the nearby steakhouse, and walked the seven blocks to the restaurant. Once out of the house, Sara's mood seemed to improve, slowly but noticeably. At the restaurant itself, she began to open up a bit more, until she was finally almost back to her usual bubbly self; I think even the waitress noticed as she gave Sara a few inquisitive looks whenever she came to refill our drinks.
As we finished dinner, Sara suddenly became deathly quiet and seemed to stare off to my right. After a moment, my gaze followed hers to watch another waitress leading a pair of customers to their table. He was dressed entirely in black casual clothes, yet he had such a strong sense of presence and leadership about him that my first thought was of a career military officer's command presence, especially since everyone definitely took notice as he passed by each table. Behind him walked a similarly-dressed young woman - who was maybe twenty-one years old, and obviously at least ten years younger than the man - with her head constantly bowed and her eyes fixated upon his feet; what was really a bit surprising was that her wrists were crossed in front of her, almost as if they had been lashed into such a position by invisible ropes.
The strong sense of worry suddenly returned to Sara, practically pouring off her in near-tangible waves. Not surprisingly, she seemed to instantly retreat back to her former sad, stressed state. When I asked my fiancée what she thought of the young woman, she did not even look at me when she replied, "I don't know." I was unsure if she was trying to avoid the question, or if she really did not have an pinion (or was still formulating an opinion), but I knew that her interest must have been piqued at least slightly.
In time, we left the steakhouse and walked back home, just as the sun was setting over the distant mountain peak. Sara seemed to slowly come out of her shell during our evening stroll, but she still was not her usual cheerful self, which was truly starting to worry me, as I had never seen her this stressed in all the years I had known her. However, when we returned to the house and she said she was going to go take a long bubble bath, I figured that would help her to relax and lift her spirits, as it had usually worked quite successfully in the past.
As Sara took her bubble bath, I went to the living room, put on Sara's favorite Amuro Namie CD on random-repeat, and sat with a friend's manuscript, editing it so that she could make revisions before submitting it to her publisher. The tale was quite compelling, concerning a young sorceress and a pair of thieves who had essentially blackmailed her into assisting them in their quest to find the rumored treasure of a former king of a hostile land. Eventually, I heard Sara descend the creaky staircase, but was too involved in the tale to truly notice until I saw bare feet and legs at the edge of my vision and could just faintly discern the scent of strawberries from her favorite bubble bath scent.
After making another note in the margin, I looked up to find my fiancée standing before me, wearing nothing but a thin collar with a small D-ring at its front, the collar she had selected several years ago when we first began to explore the realm of BDSM. Given her moderately-depressed state for much of the day, I was rather surprised that Sara would appear before me in her submissive role, her head bowed and eyes fixed upon the floor. I was even shocked that she held her favorite leather slapper at her side, and then presented it to me as it lay across her open hands.
"Are you sure?"
She simply nodded.
I waited a moment, purposely hesitating so that I could further assess the situation, then closed the binder with my friend's manuscript. Standing, I tipped her head upward and forced her to look me in the eyes.
"Why?"
"I need this, Sir."
As soon as I removed my finger from underneath her chin, the submissive's head dropped back to a bowed position, her eyes fixating upon my feet. I was almost unsure of what to do next, still stunned that Sara would wish to engage in bondage play after a day in which she seemed filled with such confusion and distress and sadness. Even now, after her long strawberry-scented bubble bath, she was still definitely not her usual bubbly self.
Taking the slapper from the submissive's hands, I simply pulled her close for a long hug. Almost immediately, she seemed to soften in my arms, as if the simple physical contact was slowly driving away the negativity and aiding the return of the cheerful young woman I had met so long ago.
After several minutes had passed, I suddenly struck her naked ass with the slapper, her yelp and her tighter grasp on me indicating her surprise. Just as her hold on me began to lighten, I struck her again, this time causing her to grunt softly into my chest. After another pause, I struck her again, a bit harder than before, and this time she remained silent, although her breathing was now coming a bit faster.
My favorite song from the CD - "I know..." - came on, and an idea washed over me. The blows from the slapper came much faster now, in rhythm with the instrumental music, alternating between very soft and very hard strikes. By the end of the song a few minutes later, the submissive's ass was definitely quite red, and she was crying softly as she held me tightly.
However, each strike of the slapper had caused her to involuntarily buck into me, and her near-constant motion now had me as hard as a mountain. More from a need to compose myself than anything else, I relinquished my hold on the young woman and backed away, leaving her arms empty. Through her tears, she looked up at me, brushing her long hair away from her face. Despite the obvious pain, she seemed to glow a little, with a hint of a smile. That, combined with the fact that she had used neither her safeword nor her safegesture, made me feel much more at ease about the entire situation. Still, I needed a bit more time.
"Go upstairs and prepare the bed," I instructed.
"Yes, Sir," she replied, bowing her head slightly, then turning and slowly leaving the living room. Watching her as she ascended the many steps, the redness of her behind was very prominent. Once she had disappeared from sight and I could no longer hear the steps creaking, I turned off the music and made my way to the kitchen, still a bit perplexed at how this evening was progressing given the events of the day. Once I had prepared two glasses of ice water, I mounted the stairs myself, the slapper and the two glasses carried upon a small tray. Arriving at the bedroom, I found the young submissive standing beside the bed, head bowed, awaiting an instruction, with three new pillar candles lit, the mirror behind them reflecting their light back into the room to illuminate it just a little more than what one might expect from just three candles.
Setting the tray upon a dresser, I checked the bed. She had picked out a set of thick black leather cuffs, each connected by a heavy silver chain to a hook strategically placed underneath the bed. She had also protected the bedposts and the bedframe with a thick velvet wrapping, to guard against scratching or cutting into the wood (a system we used in our bondage play to ensure that no one who might visit would suspect anything unusual). I was somewhat amazed that she had done all this so quickly, but then realized that perhaps we had neglected to remove the velvet protectors after our last play session earlier in the week.
Placing a hand upon her shoulder, I gently nudged the submissive to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Taking the two glasses of water, I handed one to her, then sat beside her. We both slowly drank in silence as she leaned into me. I simply placed a hand upon her thigh, and we drank, enjoying the dimly-lit silence. I could feel her relaxing a little more; if she had not been so uptight and stressed during the day, this simple act might even be somewhat romantic.
When we had both finished drinking, I stood, took her glass, and set both glasses upon the tray. With a gesture, I instructed the submissive to lay upon the bed, and she slowly complied. In silence, I moved around the bed, buckling each thick leather cuff to the nearest ankle or wrist. Then I moved to the foot of the bed and looked down upon her, spread before me, completely nude save for the cuffs and the collar, completely vulnerable, completely unprotected, completely breathtaking. Reaching down near her left ankle, I gave the chain a slight tug, finding that she had permitted herself very little slack. My eyes then tracked up her body, imperceptibly caressing her until they reached her face, and I saw that her eyes were already closed; she was already in her "zone" and awaiting the resumption of the night's activity.
Returning to the dresser, I picked up the slapper from the tray and moved to the bed, sitting beside the willing captive. Bending down, I gave her a long, slow kiss, moved downward to gently tug at a nipple with my teeth, then sat up once more. For a long time, I simply dragged the split-leather end of the slapper across her face and neck, up and down each arm, across her chest, up and down the sides of her torso, across the stomach, down and up each leg, then the gentle contact abruptly ended.
Out of the corner of my vision, I saw her eyes open and her head lift, just in time to see the slapper in the air on the downstroke; she had just enough time to emit a small squeak of surprise before fierce contact was made between her legs, turning the squeak into a semi-grunt. For an unknown length of time, I purposely alternated between dragging the slapper across her body and using it to batter her. She struggled beautifully with each strike, her soft vocalizations music to my ears, her eyes clamped shut throughout virtually the entire ordeal as she internalized the sensations.
Finally, it was time to pick up the pace, so I pummeled her with the slapper, with virtually no pauses between strikes, until tears emerged from behind her closed eyelids and cascaded down her cheeks, her pain-reddened body writhing as much as possible against the near-slackless bonds as her "fight or flight" instinct came suddenly into full force. Her loud cries filled the room with every strike now, the tears and the sweat upon her quite evident in the dim reflected light from the candles. Yet she used neither her safeword nor her safegesture throughout the entire onslaught.
The final, most vicious blow of the night struck with precision between the willing captive's legs, causing her to truly howl loudly as her body involuntarily bucked and writhed in its futile effort to escape the desired abuse. Tossing the slapper toward the foot of the bed, I quickly plunged several fingers into her, finding her quite hot and wet inside despite the punishment she had desired and endured. As much as I wanted to rip off my clothes and drive myself deep into the core of this beautiful submissive, I knew deep inside that the night's activities were much more for her benefit than for mine, so I contented myself with masturbating her fiercely, her cries of pain quickly becoming cries of pleasure and then cries of repeated orgasms until her entire body at last fell limp from exhaustion.
