Muse 3 Forced Desire 1

Pyrmont, 25 July

Milena sits at the workbench with her back towards me and her hair tied in a simple loose ponytail. Except for her collar, she is nude, focussed on her writing and she doesn't notice my arrival.

I was nervous yesterday, when I immersed Milena in the world of her dark desires. First times are hard, especially in this case. There is a world of difference between her dreamy fantasies and raw reality. How would she react? Would she enjoy it or shy away when reality confronted her sensual daydreams? Tenderness and humour help, but aren't always options given the game we play. Compounded with the awkwardness of getting to know each other's bodies, it could have been a disaster.

The first time can also be overwhelming. A desire fulfilled in reality will best any you've experienced in your dreams. It has a magic you can only enjoy once. I'm grateful she granted me this. Living here tends to leave me jaded about sensual games, but experiences like these make me realise how important and valuable they are.

I gaze at her through the bars of the door, her skin glowing white in the bright light of noon falling through the cell's skylight. Apparently, she wrote on loose sheets all morning because earlier attempts fill the wastebasket next to the table. I presume she's almost done because she's writing in the diary.

When I open the grated door to enter her cell, the sound startles her. She swivels on the stool to face me, blushing from white to a pale red. It won't be her nudity that embarrasses her; she knows to expect my visit. Her eyes dart to the small leather suitcase I'm carrying.

"The next assignment?" she asks.

I shush her with a finger to my lips. "Finish what you're doing, then we'll talk," I say, and beckon her to continue. She returns to her writing while I take a seat in the armchair, put the case on the floor, and wait. The only sound in the cell is the scratching of her pen on paper. It is warm, but not uncomfortable because of my simple, light clothing.

I plan to step up our game and playfully clarify the rules. The ropes I will use to bind her, the blindfold I will sometimes make her wear, they will be like the cell I locked her in before. With the collar already symbolising her surrender to my command, the plug will be the key to unlock the game.

Besides Milena's thirst for revenge on her husband, it was her courage that enabled her to take the first steps on this path of desires. Her need for revenge, together with her wounded pride, could pose a problem. Both are negative emotions I shouldn't evoke to challenge her. Not resentment, but desire and curiosity should motivate her decision to expand her sensual boundaries. Boundaries that I'll explore with a request or a choice, but never with a command. Choices she will not always appreciate, but which offer her a sense of security.

I will leave some boundaries untouched for now, even if the painting suggested otherwise. I won't involve others in our game, and I won't take her where she wears the jewel. When she wears it, we enter the game of dark desires. Without it, she is my equal with time to reflect on her experiences, marking her path and boundaries when her fantasies meet reality.

That is the plan for now, but as my former commander said, no plan survives confrontation with reality. I know what she fantasises about, but I don't know what her actual limits are, which makes me nervous. I don't want to run into them this early in our game.

With my eyes closed, I concentrate on my breathing to find the lucid serenity essential for my role. Much will depend on my ability to assess her and improvise accordingly. When scratching of pen on paper stops, I open my eyes again. She cleans her fountain pen before closing the diary.

"Do you want to read it?" she asks, with her back still turned towards me.

I want to read her eyes, so I rise and walk towards her, laying my suitcase on the table. She stiffens as I grab her ponytail, but she doesn't resist as I force her to look at me. She blushes again, with the hint of a smile, but she doesn't flinch. Our roles are clear, and I let her go.

"Yes, I want to read it, but not now. How do you feel?" I ask and lean against the workbench, appearing as casual as possible. I hope it eases her anxiety.

"Strange, rested, liberated," she hesitates, "excited?"

"Horny," I say. "Try the word."

"Horny," she duly repeats, still blushing, as her gaze wanders to the diary. I'm curious how she wrote her account with the limited vocabulary she appears to allow herself. First things first, though.

"How do you feel about the leap you took yesterday?"

"Good. Even now," she says without hesitation.

"Not guilty?" I ask. Her missing wedding ring had not escaped my notice yesterday. Nor does she wear it today.

She frowns. "No. Not really," then, more self assured, "what should I feel guilty about?"

I shrug. "I don't know. My standards aren't yours."

"I'm fine," she says, as terse as she looks.

She nods at the suitcase. "The next step?"

"What's in the case isn't important right now. This is." I stroke with my finger along the leather strap around her neck.

"As long as you wear the collar, you will carry out my commands. Other than that, we are equals, like before."

The rule as she knows it since she accepted my proposal. She nods. "Understood."

I take the plug from my pocket and dangle it before her, hanging from the black ribbon. The plug marks the boundary between our sensual game of dark desires and the mundane. She stares at the piece of jewellery that glitters and spins in the sunlight. Her eyes alight with dark excitement; a blend of playfulness and fear that warms me.

"When you wear this, you'll be what I want you to be."

"What do you want me to be, then?"

She frowns, not annoyed but puzzled. What more could I ask of her? Hadn't she already given everything? I detach the plug from the ribbon and place it on the table in front of her, then move to stand behind her with my hands resting on her shoulders.

"Sometimes you are my slut, other times my slave, and occasionally my toy. You may only enjoy an orgasm with my permission."

She flinches and holds her breath. I expect nothing less and gently massage her tense shoulders. I don't want to frighten or anger her.

"It's a game, Milena. An illusion of power and control with rules to which we both submit. Your role in it is that of an empty page, a clean canvas, a marble block. My role is to describe it, paint it and sculpt it into a work of art that touches me, if it doesn't already. If one of us doesn't want to play anymore, it stops. Immediately."

Slowly she breathes out, the tension in her shoulders easing under my hands. She nods in reply; she understands. I loosen her hair tie, freeing the ponytail, and gently massage her scalp.

"During the game, you refrain from doing more than I ask of you. You stay silent unless I demand an answer, or something demands my attention. Like a soldier who waits for his orders and carries them out as intended."

With her eyes closed, she puts her head in her neck and relaxes under my stroking fingertips. Relaxation is good, but she must remain lucid, so I halt my fingers tangled in her hair.

"Very well," she whispers and glances at me. "What do I get?"

"All responsibility for your behaviour rests with me. This allows you the freedom to experience what you desire. I will guide you, introduce you step by step to the reality of your fantasies. When it isn't what you imagined, or overwhelms you in the wrong way, what do you say?" I ask, stricter now.

"Bastard," she says and smirks, "or the sentence you gave me." She is too proud to repeat the words. If she doesn't follow orders and demands that lie within her limits, I will punish her. Depending on the situation, her punishment comprises abstinence, pain, or humiliation. Punishments which will result in satisfaction, if I've read her painting correctly. I press my lips on the crown of her hair and decide.

"Good enough, for now. Time for some exercises." I seize the plug from the table and hold the tip in front of her mouth. "The wetter you make it, the easier it will be for you."

She hesitates. Our eyes meet, and I hold my breath, but keep her gaze locked with mine. We both know what comes next, but does she want to? Then she takes it into her mouth, with a nervous smile. I can answer it with a calm nod, now she chose for the game herself and I tie the black ribbon over her eyes as a blindfold again.

"Rise to your feet," I say. With her hand in mine, I guide her to the centre of the room. "Your surroundings won't distract you because of the blindfold, aiding you to focus on your body and your posture. And on what I allow you to experience."

She nods and I issue the first order. "Kneel forward on the floor and spread your buttocks with your hands. Offer yourself." I say it as if it already is the colloquial command it will be.

With movements as controlled as they are fluid, she sinks on her knees and bows to the floor, holding her buttocks apart. The play of sunlight and shadow over the curves of her naked body is mesmerising. She may lack the experience of my courtesans, but her surrender is much more profound. It's not a moment to satisfy my rising lust, though. Or hers, given the glistening shimmer between her swollen labia. Her fingers probably had a hand in that during her writing.

I pull the plug from her mouth and let the tip slowly trace a wet trail from her neck down the curve of her back and between her buttocks. She shivers and sighs deeply when I reach her damp lips. I use the plug to caress her there with the warm metal, while I fetch a bottle of oil from my trouser pocket and let the oil flow between the cleft of her buttocks. "Yesterday you were my slut, now you are my slave," I whisper in her ear and use the plug for its intended purpose.

Slave. The word echoes in my head. Why am I kneeling here? Why am I doing this? Things I ask myself, with the pressure of the plug against my suddenly cramped star. Not even the oil you lavishly pour between my buttocks helps. Gone is that pleasant, horny haze I floated in all morning. 'Bastard', the word to end it all, is on the tip of my tongue.

Before I can get it past my lips, you notice and don't push any further. Gently, your fingers stroke through my hair and rub my scalp. This tenderness is reassuring, it is safe, and I'm able to relax. Slowly but surely, the plug stretches my star further and further. Now that you are doing it, it's more intrusive than before, because I lack control. The difference between picking at a scab yourself, or letting someone else take care of it.

Then relief washes over me. The thickest part is in. My body still struggles with my tension, but my mind already takes the next step, feeding the storm of lust that builds in my abdomen, making my clit and nipples tingle. Through all anxiety, the pleasant haze returns. This is why I do this, why I want this. The wonderful freedom to give in to my desires.

Exercises you said, and that's what they are. You put me through poses one by one, explaining how to do each pose and what purpose it serves. Offering myself, I already know, but there are many more. 'Stand', on my toes with my wrists crossed behind my back. 'Kneel', on my knees, sitting up straight, palms open on my thighs. My mouth at the proper level to serve your cock as you stand before me. 'Down', as offered, but with my arms stretched out in front of me; ready to be taken. 'Table', like 'Down', but leaning on my elbows. There are more, I don't remember them all. And always, always with my legs apart, my cunt and ass visible and available for you.

I stand, lie, sit or kneel in the proper pose and try to follow your commands as best I can. I enjoy your compliments when I succeed, but sometimes you correct me with your hands. It makes me feel clumsy, like coarse clay reluctant to be moulded, but I enjoy your touch. The blindfold helps; it allows me to focus on the shapes you force my body into. Most poses speak for themselves in a certain way, but I fail to remember all the details. What also doesn't help are the fantasies different positions trigger; how you can play with me and fuck me.

I lose track of time; at some point, the training is over. You finish with 'rug', flat on my stomach, wrists crossed on my back, and you release me from the blindfold. I am out of breath and sweat runs in rivulets down my body. The mixture of appreciation and lust I read in your eyes is a welcome reward for my efforts. Just like the glass of water you pour for me. I'm allowed to take a breather before we continue.

She works up a sweat and carries out my commands as best she can without grumbling. For me, it is a pleasure to direct her into positions that both emphasise her sensuality and test her compliance. But is she prepared to suffer the humiliation I can evoke with these positions? As she rubs herself dry with a towel, I take a seat in the armchair. "Your diary. May I read what you wrote this morning?" She hesitates, but then grabs the book and hands it over. I open it on the first page and smile. 'For you'. The torn remains of two pages spark my curiosity over her first attempt.

Without looking up, I stretch my arm low to my right. "Table, with your ass against my hand." No reaction. Is the posture not clear to her or is she offended by the order? I keep my gaze fixed on the first page. As a slave, she must obey me, but it remains exciting whether she will. She appears in my field of vision, standing next to me. I wait in silence. Slowly, she drops to her knees and elbows and presses her rear against the palm of my hand. Almost right. I push my hand between her thighs. The signal suffices: she moves her knees further apart, allowing my fingers to caress the inside of her thighs and her sensitive lips. She earned my appreciation.

Her writing overwhelms me: it's not the clinical record of events I expected, on the contrary. Her reluctance to let me read the diary, even though she addressed it to me, isn't surprising. She not only describes yesterday's events but also her emotions and where she is coming from, giving me a glimpse into her being. Like she did with her painting, but now in prose. Compared to the visuals she paints, her words veil our actions instead of depicting them. She struggles with terms that don't belong to the vocabulary of a well-educated lady. The text thus loses its raw directness, which is a pity.

Meanwhile, she also struggles with my stroking fingers. She pants and leans back to receive more of my caresses. A light tap on her rear suffices to make her freeze in the required pose again. Her diary eventually has the same effect on me as my hand on her. I heave to shift in my seat as I read on, until her writing ends with the previous day.

"It's riveting, Milena," I say hoarsely. "You did a great job for someone who can't put feelings into words." I rise and walk over to the workbench, flipping the book open on the next blank page.

"Stand and Present," I say, pointing to the floor in front of me. She rises, a little stiff with red knees because of the wooden floor, and stands before me with her hands folded in her neck. My caresses served their purpose. She looks at me with a lethargic expression when I blindfold her again.

"However, some of the idiom seems to elude you. For example, you write I played with your breasts," and I take a breast in each hand, "while I remember doing this." Her nipples stiffen as I circle them with my forefingers. "That's something else entirely. Do you feel the difference?" She sighs, the corners of her half closed mouth curling up. I catch her stiff nipples between my fingers. "I asked you something."

She inhales sharply, followed by a deep sigh. "Yes... I can feel the difference." I squeeze a little harder. "And what are these?"

She moans softly as a little pain mixes with pleasure. "Nipples, those are nipples," she whispers, out of breath.

I let go of her, unscrew the jar of Indian ink, and dip a thin brush into it. "Nipple," I dictate, and I brush the word smoothly over hers twice. My fingers find the warm and wet spot between her taut legs. "You write you want me 'inside' you. Do you mean in your mouth, your cunt or your ass?" I ask as I slowly caress her.

She shivers. "All of them," she mutters without thinking. "A little more specific, please," I say. My fingers slide between her labia, and I work her clit with the palm of my hand. "Mouth, cunt, ass, whatever you want," she moans. My brush does its work, writing in graceful black letters the words where they apply as I ask my next question. "And then you are?"

I am your salacious slut, your slave.

The words flow from my lips with ease. The game continues; I am your plaything now. To be fair, it brings a smile to my face. Of course I know the words. You don't have to teach me. They appear often enough on the pages in the waste bin. I was too embarrassed to write them in the diary. Which seems ridiculous to me now, in the exhilarating rush that you, with your maddeningly soft brush and your warm hands, induce in me.

I exist to be used by you. To serve you with my body.

All my shame is gone. Or no, not all. Because you humiliated me. You once again show me that the decent and demure woman I thought I was does not exist. It's nice to submit to you like this and to my surprise, it makes me even hornier than I already was.

I long for your dick, your cock, your shaft in my mouth, cunt, or ass.

Words I didn't want to use before, cover my body. You make me kneel and both your hands dig into my hair, restraining me. You order me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue, and I obey. You rub your cock against my tongue. I moan. Finally, I get what I want, I get to taste you, feel you in my mouth. I lick you with devotion. Slowly, you push your cock further inside and I suck you off. I enjoy your cock growing hard in my mouth. Even when you push too deep and my throat protests. My eyes fill with tears as you moan with pleasure. I want more of that sound, I want to last longer, but before the gagging becomes too severe to keep up, you withdraw, and I catch my breath. With the brush, you write letters on my cheeks.

Fuck me, how, where and when you want.

You grant my pleas, command me to go 'Down', while you put on protection and kneel behind me. The brush strokes my back, but it's no match for the slow strokes you fuck me with, and I can't help but moan. How I longed for this; to be filled by you again. And fill me you do! I want to come, but you hold still; it's not allowed, not yet. With difficulty I bite back the orgasm, my body taut as a string. You withdraw, remove the blindfold and the plug, and I am left hollow and empty. The rush of surrender lingers when I have to 'Kneel' and you stand before me, naked, drenched in sweat, your cock still rigid in the preservative. You lean forward and give me a tender kiss. I look up at you with unfulfilled desire as you stroke my hair and let me drink some water while I remain on my knees.

"Words can be blunt and vulgar, but sometimes they are the only words that express what you feel. So use them," I say. At the bidet, I take off the preservative and clean the plug. A tepid pain runs through my balls. Pain of unfulfilled lust she shares with me in her own way. "You're not writing for me, but for yourself. It's your diary, with your feelings and thoughts." I saunter to the workbench and, leaving the plug next to the case, I sit on a stool. "I won't ask to read it again unless you want me to."

She lowers herself onto her rear and takes a deep breath. "May I ask why?" she says with a tremor in her voice.