Ch 01 Recap: I prepared my body carefully before my blackmailer even came through the door. I surprised him with full obedience, so he didn't have a chance to overpower me.
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I believe I performed well last night.
It was the first time I obeyed a man to that extent. Of course I had been itching to do so for a while, but I couldn't just walk up to a random person and offer to obey them. I needed an excuse. And Master Red's blackmail was a perfect one.
I bet he knew that too. His blackmail was probably less a threat than a kind offer to take over my body. He took the legal risk so I could submit myself without taking awkward initiatives. How chivalrous!
But I wasn't lying when I said I hated him. How can you not hate a man who may destroy your social standing with a click of a mouse? My hate for him gave my surrender a sharper taste of humiliation, which my body happened to crave.
Now I hear his footsteps again, as expected. He unlocks the door with the extra key he took from me last night. As the door swings open, he finds me quietly kneeling on the floor, crossing my arms in the back like I did yesterday.
"You are dressed today."
"I'm cold."
"But that part is not?" He refers to the part of me that's exposed. I'm wearing a loose sweater and a pair of thick long socks, but have nothing on between my waist and my knees.
"I want to be warm, but don't want to be inconvenient for you".
He smiles understandingly. "So we're back to 'I' and 'you'? You don't like my rule about using third-person titles, do you?"
"I hate it."
"That's what I thought. You're too strong-minded to call yourself 'Little Girl'. You are a tough woman that deserves self-respect. You know what? I'll stop regulating your speech, as long as your body fully obeys me. Cheers to the First Amendment." He whips out his Canon and starts taking pictures again.
The strange thought that I will have full freedom of speech while he manhandles my body without resistance gives me a rush of fever. I can't help lifting the hem of my sweater over my breasts and cupping them with both of my hands. "Can I?" I look at him and ask for permission to foreplay with myself.
"Uh-huh. Let me change this thing to video mode."
The moment my thumbs land on my anticipating nipples, an intoxicating heat wave spreads like fire from the points of contact all the way to my spine. My fingers move extra slowly for the sake of the camera. I don't want anyone to watch the video, but still feel obligated to make my movement aesthetic.
I'd be content staying in this state forever, attending to those greedy nipples, but the tingling in my vagina reminds me that I'll be better off letting my master take the lead. I stop the rubbing and slide the sweater over my head, leaving only my socks and collar on. The camera is still rolling, but I hear no instructions about what to do next. I turn my eyes to the desk on which I was tamed 24 hours ago, a giveaway that I want to get back there. The cum stain on the floor mat next to the desk is still visible. I could have scrubbed it better like what I normally do to coffee spills, but decided to leave it there for its sentimental value.
"I see that you removed the things on the desk," he says.
"I didn't want to damage the computer."
"Good."
He gives the desk some thought and props up the camera to face it. Then he walks to my bed, gathers my thick blanket in his arms, and then spreads it on the desk, double-layered. Does he want a softer surface to press me against? That'd be almost sweet of him, but a little out of character.
He taps the covered desk and demands, "Now lie on your back."
Now it makes sense. I will no longer have my breasts as cushions like last time, hence the blanket. But I won't fully appreciate the importance of the blanket until I lie all the way down, realizing that my head extends over the edge of the desk. My neck is stretched backward by the gravity of my head, but the blanket prevents my spine from contacting the sharp edge.
Since I'm lying orthogonal to the desk, the width of the desk is only enough to support my torso. So most of my legs, like my head, also dangle over the edge. My mouth and my sex, therefore, are facing opposite directions, both warming themselves in anticipation.
He reaches into his backpack again. "Remember the prize I promised you?" he says while holding up a large bundle of ropes, the same clean and white kind as last time.
"I wasn't sure if I behaved well enough."
"You did beat my expectations. I'd say a solid B minus."
A "B minus" sounds like an F for someone whose only job is to obey. He's basically humiliating me for not having aced self-humiliation. I don't know how I should feel about it. Do two negatives make a positive, suggesting I mounted a meaningful resistance? Or do they add up to a worse negative, suggesting I failed in both resisting and surrendering?
Most likely, I'm just overthinking it. I do that when I'm nervous. I pull my attention back to the ropes, waiting for them to work their magic.
"Your arms first." He straightens my arms sideways across the length of the desk so that my wrists stick out of the desk's edges. He starts working on tying each wrist to the nearest leg of the desk. He does it slowly and silently with a slight frown like a doctor patching me up. He notices my stare and my barely discernible smile, but keeps working on the rope without saying a word. I bet he almost kissed me, but decided to prioritize his role as a ruthless master. Only after he finishes, he reluctantly kisses one of my tied hands on the fingers. I feel spoiled again, like how I felt when he washed my toes last night.
I notice that the ropes aren't fully stretched. I wiggle my arms and warn him, "The desk may shake if I struggle." It's an IKEA product, not the most stable thing in the world.
"Then don't."
"What if it hurts too much?"
"Then try to hold it for Christ's sake. What's the point of taming you if you still keep flapping like a wild duck?"
"Can you just make the rope a little tighter? Please?"
"Then I'd need to redo the knots. I'm a busy man." He gives one of my breasts a crispy slap while demanding, "Stop arguing."
It's the first real slap I've ever taken in my life, which makes me realize how real his domination is. I want him to slap me again, but I want to obey him even more. So I shut up while holding back tears.
He walks to the front of the desk to continue his work. He pulls off my socks and pulls my left ankle further to the left so he can tie it to a desk leg. Tying the first ankle is easy, but repeating that on the other side may be hard. The last time I attempted a split was ten years ago in a gymnastics summer camp. Does he have enough strength to force my ankles far apart enough to reach the opposite sides of the desk?
It turns out he manages the maneuver pretty easily. Holding my right ankle with both of his hands and pulling like in a tug of war, he positions my legs into a near-perfect full split before I know it. My cry from pain only comes after. Because of my leg's tendency to spring back, he has to tie the last knot quickly. By the time he finishes, my tears haven't stopped.
"My poor little thing, " he says while undressing himself. "It must be painful. But pain is necessary to help you remember your place. Do you understand?"
I manage to lift my head from the edge and look at him, who stands with his exposed sex a few inches from mine. "I don't understand any of this. But I trust you know how to fix me." I hang my head again to brace for his next act of brutality.
He lowers himself on me, but stops just before his chest reaches mine. He spreads his arms so he can touch my hands tied to both sides. Instead of waging a storm on me, he sweeps his palms from my hands to my shoulders in such a slow motion as if he were doing research on my texture. His hands join at my neck and, without stopping, travel down toward my belly. The two hands split again after reaching my pubis and keep traveling toward my feet. As if one trip were not intoxicating enough, his hands travel back the same routes after reaching my toes. I would be purring right now if I were a cat. I doubt I deserve a caress like this. In fact, I'm not sure any sinful human deserves it. It's just too close to heaven.
He walks to the other side of the desk where my head hangs from the edge. He takes a knee like a knight and gently lifts my head to meet his. He pokes his nose into my cheek and makes a sniffing sound. Apparently, he likes my scent. He moves his nose around to sniff other parts of my face as if I were his cocaine. That analogy strikes me with a sweet sense of self-worth.
"Did you use any lotion or cream today?"
"No."
"So this is the smell of your natural hormone."
"I guess." I can't smell my own scent. But I can feel I'm mass-producing it right now, especially after getting his approval.
