Hands Against the Wall

I've always felt that the dominant-submissive relationship is the physical expression of an even deeper mental connection. The submissive gives up the control of her body for the purpose of solidifying this connection. I like to think of it as self-sacrifice at the altar of obedience. Every dominant can tell you that if you've lived the lifestyle long enough, you soon develop a sixth-sense when it comes to determining who's a sub. The subtle clues in her behavior, her choice of dress, her words, they all give her away. Those who aren't hip to the game may think I'm referring to the mousy little librarians in the long flannel skirts, but that's not what I mean. She might be a soccer mom, a professional athlete, or a bank president. In public, she's confident and commanding. To the untrained eye, she might be anything BUT a sub. My eye knows differently. The skill comes in knowing when to stop toying with what's known and to bring it to the surface of the relationship. At 4pm today, the time came for Emily and I.

All of this is somewhere in the back of my mind as I stand here pressing Emily's topless body hard against the wall, my mouth is mere centimeters from her ear, making sure that my warm breath comes into contact with the side of her neck, my bare chest pressed against her back, the weight of me giving her no opportunity to move away. For a split second, she gave token resistance in the form of putting her hands against the wall and attempting to push away to give herself some space, but now was the time to confirm what I'd long known. I pressed her even harder against the wall and used my hands to grasp her wrists tightly and lifted her hands above her head, slamming the palms flat against the wall. For a split second, her instinct was to recoil and drop them back down, but she was stopped cold by my grunt "no" and a slight tightening of my hands which were now around her waist. This is the unspoken communication. Our understanding is that I've put her where I want her to be, and she wouldn't dare move.

I step back now and I survey the situation. Her body is pulsating from the anticipation of what's coming next, although she has no idea what that might be. Her cheek is resting firmly against the wall, her eyes are closed, and she's rocking ever so slightly from the excitement of being controlled. And her hands, they're still there, palms planted firmly against the wall above her head. I smile. Then I step back to her and I reach round the front of her waist to her belt buckle. Slowly I loosen it and slide the belt from the loops in her pants. I chuckle to myself as I recall her glee when got this $250 gem from me as a present...little did she know. Next, I unbutton her slacks, and I pull them down past her hips, her ample round butt, and let them rest around her ankles. She starts to make a motion to step out of them and again she is admonished with a guttural "no". She freezes. I step back to survey once more. I am pleased that she has complied with my instructions from our earlier phone call. She was at work when I spoke to her and told her nothing more than "close your office door, take off your panties, and throw them in the trash. Be at my door no later than 6."

The cracking sound of the leather belt hitting her skin is almost deafening in living room. The first lash of the $250 playtoy comes across the upper part of her back, and simultaneously, I hear her gasp, and I see her body tighten, but her hands never move from that wall. The return trip brings it into contact with her nice round butt. Again, there's a gasp. The next swing brings it in touch with backs of her exposed thighs. For good measure, I swing the belt one more time, but only for the effect of her hearing it slice the air, and seeing her prepare her body for more contact. She tenses, but I do not touch her. Instead, I step into her again, and I grab her left wrist off the wall, allowing it to descend slowly, but deliberately down her body, guiding her hand to the spot between her legs. We can both feel her warmth and moisture as we near her anxious pussy. She is already wet beyond belief as both of our fingers begin to search out a path around her clit, up and down the lips, in and out of her. I can close my eyes and feel the conflict of her pain and pleasure transmitted through her body and into my own. I whisper ugly things into her ear and each word only drives her more insane. Like the chorus in a song, I continually tell her that she is "my bitch" and each time the words enter her ear and are absorbed by her brain, they are transmitted back our of her into me as an understood embrace, acceptance, and compliance. Soon, the feeling of her fast approaching orgasm is near, and in the split second before her orgasm comes crashing over her in waves, I step back again, raising the belt hand high to my side and I bring it down again as hard as I can.

Her response to this lash is something between a scream and a groan. It's almost primal in nature, but it doesn't stop her from the pursuit of this orgasm. I can see the muscles in her arm tense and relax as they force her hand to work harder and harder against her pussy. I lash her again, and again, each time shouting a name uglier than the one that preceded it. On the fourth strike, it happens. Her body, although quite strong, is not enough to contain the sensations it is experiencing. The sound of the animal within comes out of her mouth and the power of her orgasm forces every muscle within her to contract. I can see them too. The marks left by the belt across her back, ass, and thighs all seem to constrict and contort into an indescribable pattern. The escape of all these sensations causes her knees begin to buckle and she almost slides down the wall like a character in a cartoon.

The loud shout of "no!" brings her back to reality, back to attention, back to my command. She is breathless, gasping for air, but she maintains enough of her composure to know that her physical state is secondary. If she can muster thought, she can obey me. Knowing this, she raises her hand back up to its position on the wall above her head. I smile a wicked smile. For only I know that this was just the beginning. We've got many hours left in the evening ahead of us.