Peppermint Ch1.
So, how did we come to this? Neither of us had this in mind when we started. It had been you that was dominant - had made a career from being dominant - and yet it was you who knelt with your wrists cuffed behind your waist, buttocks resting on your heels and your nipples clamped between the pages of the leather-bound atlas that lays upon the low, object-covered table, a large iron kettlebell pressing the pages shut and trapping you in position. I can hear your measured breathing and know that from the depth and rhythm that although you are in pain you have a long way to go before your threshold is reached. The quiet is uninterrupted, the sounds of the outside world remote and unimportant. There are cars in the street, aeroplanes in the sky, but for you the entire world has shrunk to this room. This room at the back of your house, with the patio doors that lead onto your raised deck closed, the clock on the mantlepiece silent. I know how your heart will be beating, measured, steady. Your pulse, regular and strong will be loud in your ears as you wait for me.
It almost seems a shame to disturb the scene, but I do so anyway. I breathe in, deeply, sucking in the warm afternoon air, feeling it fill my chest with an almost indecent enthusiasm. I slip through the patio door, carefully closing it behind me. You don't move, speak or give any indication that you have noticed me; good. Everything is orderly, the room spotlessly clean and arranged how I had ordered it. You are dressed according to my instructions, the straps of your bra loose and hanging down, resting in the crooks of your elbows, your breasts spilling over the small cups to facilitate your capture. Black hold-ups rise to mid-thigh and the leather slave collar I bought you is fastened around your throat. Again, good. You have arranged your hair, darkfire red, to cascade down your back to the tops of your buttocks. Kohl darkens your lashes and eyelids until they merge into black nebulae.
"You are ready for me. You have done well. How long have you been here like this? Nod your head if it has been longer than an hour". My voice sounds too loud, too harsh, for this setting, but I steel myself to it as you nod slowly. "As I instructed. Do you feel pain?" Again, a slow nod. "Are you uncomfortable?" This time a steady, careful shake of your head. "You have your safe word; should you use it, all activities will cease. I do not wish to hear your voice until you use it, is that clear?" In this I am torturing myself, for I love the sound of your voice, but I have been given a role to play. You nod again, still facing forward. I move until I am standing at your right-hand side and rest the fingertips of my left hand on your shoulder. "Look at me, Deborah," I say, and at the use of your name I hear it, that slight intake of breath that gives you away. You turn your head slowly, so as not to rip your nipples free of the atlas' grip and tilt your chin towards me and I see your dark grey eyes dilate slightly. For someone so used to the position of strength you have more tells than you might care to admit to. I know who and what you are and I know how aroused you must be.
"Would you like more pressure?" I ask, moving to stand behind you. There is no hesitation in your answer, and you nod willingly. I lift another kettlebell from the rack to your left, lift it over your head and place it roughly down on the atlas. A whimper escapes you as the pain in your nipples increases and your hands shake, rattling the cuffs. "Too much?" I ask, but you shake your head. I kneel behind you, grip your shoulders and rock you slightly backwards, stretching your nipples away from your chest. "Maintain the position," I order, and trace my hands over the soft skin of your breasts, noting with approval how the puckered skin of your areolae contrasts with the sharp, compressed pages. Your skin is warm, the first sheen of stress sweat beginning to form on it. I gently cup and then slap each breast in turn, first right, then left. Two short intakes of breath are the only evidence that you noticed. I slap each breast a little harder from above and your breathing begins to quicken. I run my fingers through your gorgeous hair from scalp to buttocks, then stand and walk around the table to look you in the eyes.
"It is time to begin. Lean back until you pull your nipples free" I say, and you pause for the briefest moment before allowing yourself to fall backwards, tearing your aching nipples from between the pages of the atlas, which snap together with an audible click. You give a loud whimper of pain as the blood returns, blossoming into a burn which causes the whimpering to become louder and more pronounced. You writhe on the floor for a few moments until I command you to stop and kneel again, facing away from the table. You steady yourself with a few deep breaths and then do as you are bid. I come to stand in front of you again and reach down to take your right nipple in the fingers of my left hand. "Look at me" I say, and as you do so I twist the dark bud hard to clockwise, grinding it between my thumb and first and second fingertips.
Your whimpering becomes a moan of real pain and your body tries to protect itself by pulling away from me. I redouble my grip and tell you to stay still. With effort you comply, and I gaze into your eyes, marvelling at your lack of fear even as the sparkle of barely-held tears gathers. I let your nipple go and watch as it returns slowly to its normal shape, retreating but not defeated. "Nod if you want me to do the same to the other" I say quietly, and, holding my gaze, you nod once. I seek out your other breast and grip the nipple firmly, pinching it as I twist it hard. This time your response is part moan, part sob, but you maintain eye contact throughout. "Good girl" I say. "You're strong and I like that." I gesture you to stand, and you do so, drawing yourself up to your full 1.6m. I slip the straps of your bra up over your shoulders and carefully replace your breasts in the cups. A momentary look of disappointment crosses your face but clears at once as I say "We aren't finished yet, Deborah. We aren't finished yet."
Telling you to turn around, I reach into my pocket and remove the key to the handcuffs, which I unlock and place on the table. I run my eye over the waterfall of your hair, the scoop of your back and the swell of your buttocks. Allowing my gaze to drop lower I note the curve of your hips, your silk-clad thighs and the delicate arches of your feet. Not for the first time I wonder at the luck that has led me here. "Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart" I say quietly. "Remove your bra and use your hands to touch your nipples." Instantly you obey, just as you assured me you would. I play back our previous conversation in my mind, recalling how you'd said that you would do whatever I told you to. I walk slowly around until I am standing in front of you and you look up at me with trust in your eyes. I watch your fingers pinching your flesh, manipulating the pale skin as you edge your excitement higher. I allow a full five minutes to pass; your nipples are fully erect when I tell you to drop your hands. "Are you wet, Deborah?" I ask. You nod and look at me beseechingly. "Do you want to come?" Another nod. "Use your right hand to touch your clit."
With one swift movement you slide your fingers across your belly and between your legs, dipping them into your wetness and finding your clitoris immediately. I see your body shudder slightly as you stroke yourself softly. "Use your left hand to slap your right breast." You follow my instruction immediately and begin to slap yourself, gingerly at first but with growing confidence. An area of reddened skin soon becomes apparent. The sounds of your ragged breathing and moans are now prominently audible in the room, mingling with the ongoing slaps, and the skin across your upper chest is beginning to flush. "Are you close, Deborah? Are you close to coming?" You nod repeatedly and begin to arch your back, pushing your breasts towards me.
"Stop!" The command jumps from my lips and you force yourself to cease your caresses. Again, I hear you sob once and you look at me half in anguish and half in lust. "Cross your arms across your stomach and stand with your feet together". You comply, obviously regretfully. I can tell how badly you want to climax and I am determined to keep that from you for now.
"You can climax, Deborah, if you want to. However, that point will mark the end of our activities. Do you want to end them now, with an orgasm?" Your chest heaves as you shake your head, the pre-echoes of your denied coming reluctant to leave. Nevertheless, you wish to continue, to test yourself against me.
"Good. I would be... disappointed if you were to prove so easily swayed." A hint of a smile touches your lips before being quickly subjugated as you stare once more at the expensive Moroccan carpet on which you stand. "Drop your arms to your sides. Do not attempt to touch yourself. Do you want more pain, Deborah?"
Again, you nod once, confidently.
I direct you to retrieve your bra and hand it to me. Once you have done so I use it to tie your hands behind your back and then turn my attention to the table again. Relieving it of the weight of the two kettlebells, which I replace on the rack, I take the short black crop which you have selected from where it lays behind the atlas. "You are to stand exactly where you are, without moving. I will strike you repeatedly with this crop. Should you want me to stop, you will use the safe word. If you speak, I will stop immediately and our activities will cease. Do you understand?" That confident nod again. "Let's see how much you want, shall we? Remember, Deborah, this is not punishment and that you asked me to do this."
With that, I tap you smartly on the abdomen with the folded end of the crop, just under your left breast. When there is no visible response, I repeat the action underneath the right. Still no response, so I begin to hit you harder, first left, then right, increasing in ferocity until you are flinching before each impact. I move the impacts upwards to the upper swell of your bust and continue to land the blows. I can tell that your strength and will are beginning to battle the natural urge to escape the pain, your bound hands clutching at the air behind your back, your breathing becoming sharper and your legs beginning to twitch. The red patch left by your own slapping of your left breast is now joined by a paler patch on your right, the skin becoming inflamed.
