It's Charming. You're Charmed.

Chapter 1—The Stage is Set

I haven't answered a single email. You've had me strike up conversations with a few people lately, looking for someone local who can fit the bill, an up-close-and-personal dominant to play the role you've been playing from a distance. You've insisted that my habit making contact with someone once, and then never speaking to them again, isn't polite. You've repeatedly asked me to simply tell them that I'm unsteady where strangers are concerned, reminded me that there's no harm in just talking. You've asked me to be polite. I haven't been.

I haven't looked at the short stories I'm supposed to be working on. I have one large project that I've been working on for a few years, now, catching a moment here or there when the mood struck, a novel that could really be something fun when finished, but that never gets any attention. I have the cruise story, the story, the one with you, me, the player-to-be-named-later, and all the kinky paraphernalia that we could get past security without worrying that we looked like terrorists. (What? Doesn't everyone take two dozen scarves, a riding crop, six battery-powered toothbrushes, a formal maid's uniform, a bag of clothespins, and a whole clothesline on a six-day trip? That's clearly just packing for basic hygiene. And horseback riding.) I have an idea for a more reflective, dreamy piece, something that just needs an outline at this stage so that I don't lose it. All of these lovely ideas, and you've asked only for progress on something. There has been none.

Instead, over the past few days, I've slept in, reveled in mornings filled with the best public television has to offer, read about the early days of Saturday Night Live, fussily made coffee in my French press from custom-roasted beans, and diddled myself to rollicking orgasm a dozen times, rather than turning my attention and very busy fingers to writing or correspondence, the way you asked.

Writer's block isn't something from which I generally suffer. Inability to settle on an idea, sure. Difficulty staying on task, absolutely. Procrastination, oh, lord, yes. Complete lack of something to say? NEVER. I can't pinpoint the cause. It might be the simple pressure of the page. More likely, though, I suspect we've come to a very special point in our relationship. It's that time, a moment I seem to find, consciously or unconsciously, with any authority figure: I've decided to test you. If I'm being honest, it's mostly been a conscious decision, my thinking, "Eh, fuck it. This is the first real break I've had in a very long time. I'm not doing shit. Dom or no Dom, he'll understand--he's reasonable."

I admit I've been dragging my feet about the emails; you know I don't like reaching out to new people, so you're having me stretch myself a bit. The writer's block has been real, though, as have some of the real life commitments. Even so, I know your patience isn't endless, so I turn to undeniable real life business. I have some studying to do, reviewing and practicing prewriting techniques. Hoping to kill two birds with one stone, getting past the block to write for you as assigned and brushing up my skills for demonstration on Monday, I start with the basics. Filling the page, getting any notion down, my ideas begin to flow, and it's possible to find direction in the ensuing mess.

Picking through the lot, looking for something shiny in what I've gotten down so far, I spot what seems to be the need for confession. I also notice the complete lack of contrition. I may be admitting my wrongdoing, but so far, I don't seem to agree that I'm doing wrong. The words are sassy and combative. I'm not taking the tone of a confession, and in that, an idea has formed.

A game. A contest. A challenge.

I'm contrary by nature. I'm forced to push. I can't help it. It's part of my unique charm. (Constantly disagreeing with everything can be charming. It's charming. You're charmed.) I'm contrary because testing bounds helps to define them. How does one know that a limit is solid, dependable, without testing? How reasonable are you? How understanding will you be? How long do I really have before you lose patience and demand a result from me? Will I be allowed to delay as long as I want? Will you accept my hand-waving and excuses? Are you distracted by a flash of skin and a naughty suggestion? Can I easily lead you?

With true Real Life issues, you will understand, and you are reasonable, but all things in moderation. I'm sure that if I delay enough, I will run out your patience. I'm also sure that if I play you right, I can buy some amnesty, and therein lies the challenge. Can I write you a story, here and now, that will raise your dominant ire and your delicious dick in equal proportions, both to my orgasmic benefit? Can you keep your focus on keeping me in line? The tasks are set. I write something worthy of redeeming my confessed insolence. You weigh the discipline against the pleasure and come out on top.

I admit it. I'm curious about whether or not I can do it. And make no mistake, though I'll be thoroughly apologetic later, a small part of me

is

gloating. I can put shit off indefinitely if I wish. I've had a lifetime of practice at procrastination. If nothing else, I could just lie about having done it. It's something a brat would do, and I'm feeling a bit bratty. Without you right here in front of me, a tiny voice asks, "Why not? What's he going to do about it? Come down here and make me?" The problem is that, occasionally, when one asks, "What's he going to do about it?" they will get an answer, often an unpleasant one. Asking, though, is irresistible to me. I have to know--what ARE you going to do about it?

Halfway through my second page, it's safe to say that the block is chipping away as my fingers are happily pecking away, but without a little bit of plot in the face of all this exposition, we hardly have a story, do we? So, let's skip ahead a little bit, hmm? We'll get to the big, bad consequences of my actions. The dynamic I've had with you thus far has been sensual, first and foremost, and the kink has been worked into that. Tonight's scene, though, is all kink, pure consequence. For you to be so focused on teaching me a lesson, rather than orgasm, as I've come to expect from you, you must feel that I've been a very naughty girl, indeed. You've read my little screed here, the verdict is in, and, oh my goodness, it is not pretty.

Let's assume the worst and say that you've had a very hard week, that work is taking over your life, that you are overrun with people and projects who seem to exist only to make things more complicated. You look to your sub, of whom you've asked one simple thing. You have asked your sub, the writer, to write. You've even offered her two forms in which to do so, trying to provide her structure, something for which she's asked. In return, she pops off with, "Ha, ha, yeah...no," reporting "progress" on assigned duties, not with the news that she's addressed those people waiting for answers or whipped up a new scene for you but with a cheeky missive gloating about vast accomplishments in laziness and the boast that she has the ability to cloud your head with sex and sneak away unpunished.

Perhaps you simply wanted a few sentences from me, and I've put them (and you) off for weeks now. Unanswered IMs, ignored emails sitting in my inbox, guys completely disregarded and feeling as if they're simply shouting down a hole, and I couldn't bother giving up five minutes instead of watching a re-run of

My Name Is Earl

. Sleeping until noon was far more important than getting a scene written for the cruise story. Whole nights passed in which the Xbox took precedence over writing you'd commissioned.

Maybe cocky isn't the right attitude to strike, but now that I've started, I'm in that rare space between the jump and the splat. In for a penny, in for a pound, right now. I like the challenge that lies in first pissing you off and then turning you on. In my brasher moments, I run my mouth. I feel my oats. I blur the edges in my sexual storytelling, upping the bravery, the thrill--and let's be frank--the body, like the hype of a wrestler. I talk big about sex because I like big talk about sex. I make noise about making noises.

You're usually forgiving of that, letting the hyperbole run off of you, understanding that it's almost mandatory for a Southern girl add a few frills to everything. You rarely make me live up to my own propaganda. Instead, you find the grain of truth. You notice details. You file away for future reference. You pay attention. I like your attention, true enough, but the attention alone doesn't hold the thrill. No, the thrill comes in the unsteady knowledge that you will hold me accountable. When I idly grandstand about marking my words, you not-so-idly do.

On the surface, your response to my mouth is consistent. You're bemused. You're aroused. You're interested. You're supportive. The effect is disarming. I forget, in the face of your charm, that you have the mind of an engineer ticking away over there, taking the puzzle in front of you and mulling it over during the light back-and-forth of our perpetual purple patter. You sate me, conversationally, and I forget that while I'm adding my frills to things, I'm letting slip dirty little details that can and will be held against me.

Well, "forget" is a bit of a stretch. It gives me too little credit, and we can't have that. Clearly, I am more awesome than being ten years old with a blue tongue from a bubble gum sno-cone in the swimming pool after bedtime on the fourth of July during the fireworks with all your friends and the cute boy from homeroom smiling at you. It's not always a matter of forgetting. At times, I give you little glimpses as gifts, ropes with which to bind me.

Giving you "Princess" was unintentional, a slip, but you pounced and put it to immediate use. Letting you know that I'm surprisingly limber, that was a gift with a great big bow, and stretching is something you've used a little more sparingly. The underlying rhythm of your now unique pet name for me has been a turn-on and an assurance that I am yours in an equally unique way. As far as being bendy, it's the fact that you haven't made it a staple that is the turn-on, a niggling worry about where that will show up, about what you'll do, about what you'll have me beg to do for you.

It's how the game is played, exchanging information with the power, and you are an enjoyable player to watch. Either reaction, whether fast and hard or low and slow, urges me onward, pushing me to turn over more rocks to find new and interesting little forms of life to show you. (Have I mentioned, by the way, that the first time the mental monologue shut off in the face of sex was the first time I felt a tongue on my earlobe, of all places? That I can orgasm from having someone do nothing more than pay extensive attention to my nipples? )

Whether I've slipped or I've supplied, I'm curious if you'll notice. What you'll do with the information if you did notice. Whether or not you see the thread and pull it to figure out how and where it kinks. More often than not, you see. You pull. You kink. And what a very clever boy you are when you do. Delightfully, commendably so. Bravo on all counts. One of the reasons you like me, though, is that I'm a clever girl, and I notice things, too. Recently, it's that you find a certain utility in the judicious application of a spreader bar. I own several, in a variety of lengths, so that is where we begin with my punishment for my attitude.

When you arrive, early, you kiss me warmly but with restraint. (Apparently a theme for the evening. Huzzah.) Because I am fairly certain that I'm in trouble, I am surprised by the warmth. Because of the warmth, I'm miffed by the restraint. As rarely as we see each other, the first kiss isn't ever restraint, it's raw need. A concession to the once-in-a-blue-moon gods. You hold back from me, and like a child, I focus on the slight rather than on what this might bode, wanting my sweet instead of noticing that Daddy's mad.

"The dress is lovely and you're lovely in it. Now lose it. All of it, please. Quickly."

I assume that you're having me strip as a more elaborate "hello kiss." That you're planning a "hello spanking." You lead me to forget my petulance in favor of the excitement of this new development, letting me graciously forgive you if it means your hands on my ass as quickly as possible.

A polite smile and, "Up on stage, princess." You gesture to the island, the top of which you've cushioned with several large towels and black chenille blanket. The effect resembles the kind of pedestals seen beneath show animals or large pieces of jewelry, the item being examined glistening brightly against all that dark softness. You've converted it, indeed, into a stage of sorts.

While I'm stripping, dress down to the black lingerie, the garters, the whole nine yards, I'm distracted by trying to catch your attention. I assume that being male will override being dominant for a moment, so I bend and linger while I slowly undo the strap of a shoe. I look you in the eye as I drop the bra and play with the rings through my nipples, titanium, one blue, one purple, willing you to break eye contact first and look down, the way I know you want to. And you do, to my smug surprise; you look down, to my hands and my tits. You walk over to me, and you finish undressing me, working from the top down, running your hands over me as you pull everything down and off, quietly dropping it all in a neat little pile, forgotten. I assume I've won, and you're ravishing me like Nature intended.

I'm mistaken.

I fail to notice that your thoughts have gone to release, but not to orgasm. You might not be able to flog a deadline or a coworker, but you can, sure as hell, flog my lazy ass. Glib instruction is a crisp counterpoint to the very real statement you're making to me. Since this is a punishment for my so-called "wit," I do not get the luxury of a bed, couch, footstool, or even the floor. No, you make it clear from the first moment that, tonight, I am on display. You want me on the island, three feet away from my front door, three feet off the ground, within easy reach as you turn to your task.

You order me onto my back. It is then, on your pedestal, that your response to my provocation is suddenly real to me, blooming to life with canned bulbs in the ceiling you've angled, focused on my bare skin, providing handy spotlights for the upcoming display. You're puttering around, getting everything just-so spread out within reach on the nearby table set up for the purpose, holding three coils of black rope, the longest of the spreader bars, a selection of sensation toys, of vibrators, of floggers, of canes, of dildos, a buffet of sexual creativity.

The worry is real with your use of the island, and it grows with every gesture and statement. I've challenged you, debatably stopping short of outright defiance. Your movement is focused, deliberate. Your instructions are precise. Your tone is polite and clinical.

You rest the spreader bar across my ribs, lifting my tits and using them to hold the bar in place while you collect your next piece. It isn't the most dignified way to hold things, so I begin to reach for it. You snap, "Oh, honey, no. You're the center ring tonight. You're the main attraction. I may be your only audience, but I'd think you'd want to give me something worth seeing, considering how dedicated you are to your Master. Don't you want to entertain me? No, let's see what tricks your body can do, considering all your mouth seems able to do at the moment is waste my time and annoy me."

I'm in deep shit.

I slowly relax and will myself to take a deep breath. I love the moment at the beginning of a scene when I realize that the race is on, the game is afoot. It's the first thrill of adrenaline along the skin, my nipples getting tight, and the hint of dampness between my legs. I relax, I lay back, and I give in.

You pull my right hand to my right shin, laying my palm flat along the top of my foot, my fingers wrapped around the joint, and my forearm lining up with my lower leg, between which, you've set one end of the rope. You're using the black cotton rope you gave me, the first time I've had it used on me, and it seems fitting. You wrap my arm and leg together, the end of the rope tucked securely between, a quick-release in case I panic, but one that requires help to undo.

After the first two limbs are cocooned together, you thread the loose end of the rope first through one end of the spreader bar, then the other. You arrange my left hand on my left ankle, just so, wrapping it in the rope, making sure it matches the other side, fussing with details, your expression never really changing. Once you've finished, the effect is one I think of as frog-like and unflattering, an idea which you know makes me uncomfortable. It's not enough that I'm on display. I'm

thoroughly

on display, elbows pulled up and out by the rope and bar, like a squat, kinky scarecrow, forearms dangling perpendicular from the ends of the bar, lower legs dangling alongside.

I'm still on my back, relaxing into the stretch of my spread legs, my own mind ticking away, wondering how best to turn this to my advantage. My tits are still holding the bar down; even in your fussing, you've made it clear that any discomfort found in the position has been right and truly earned, and you like my implied vulnerability. You remind me that I have been known to enjoy vulnerability, as well, running a finger with aching slowness from one knee, up the inside of the thigh, tracing my open pussy, one stroke each up, then down, leaving a quickly evaporating trail of wetness down the other thigh to the waiting knee, a cold memory following your warm fingertip.

I feel my pussy clench in response to your touch, knowing that even in punishment, it will be so good. I can feel that I'm no longer damp, but beginning to drip, and all it has taken is the brush of your hand. Just as I'm clearly under your influence, I know that irritable you may be, but impenetrable, you are not. I know that you felt me, wet, hot, tight, just as I felt you. I know that you're wondering just how much wetter I got from your barest attention. You're wondering just how good it would feel to take this hot, wet, tight pussy now, right now, spread open and begging for your hard, pounding cock, taking from this dripping wet pussy the screaming orgasm that is your right as Master.

After all, I'm tied. If you want to fuck me first, what am I going to do about it, get down and stop you? After I've all but begged you, with body and behavior, from the moment you've walked in the door, to fuck me. Wasn't I almost pouting when you stopped at just a kiss? You could spread me and fuck me and then proceed with your original plans, and my sweet, dripping, open pussy is begging you to do it. Take me. Use me. Fuck me.

Then you can proceed with your little plans.

Fuck me.

Then beat me.

Fuck me.

Then punish me.

Fuck me.

Then show me you're in charge.

Fuck me.

Then I'll be good. Honest.

Just fuck me.

You let loose with a sound that is all but growl, the first hint that I might actually be reaching through the calm Dom exterior. A gnat of doubt makes an appearance, and I wonder if you have a limit for my bullshit, if what you want is someone who will just give in and be malleable, as opposed to being a kind of worthy adversary. I start to break out of the scene, "Look, I'm sorr—"

All thought is gone when you turn back around, pants down, condom in one hand, the other palm down on the island as you seem to crawl up to me. Then, you're inside me, one stroke, hard and fast, pinning me, stretching my legs fully apart with your weight pressing on the bar between us. Your body relaxes, but you continue to throb inside me, your hips still, your body keeping me still. You regain your calm, your "fussiness," for lack of a better term, and launch into what can only be called a lecture, circumstances be damned.