Put a Ring on It

If you were transported into the room, with no prior knowledge or expectations, it is very unlikely that you could correctly guess the kind of building you were in. The walls were bare, stone, and so was the floor. It wasn't dirty, certainly not, but it had that air of dank, dampness that came from being underground. The lack of windows or any source of natural light might lead you to realise it was a basement if the smell didn't. It was lit by one ceiling light: shaded. There was one door which led out of the room: it was bolted. Not that you could move to reach it.

In the centre of the room stood a metal frame, the size and shape of a door frame, but standing alone in the middle of the floor. Restraints are attached to every corner of the frame, and they now encircle your wrists and ankles. They're buckled securely, four identical padlocks ensuring total restraint. The chains attached to the cuffs are welded directly to the frame: this has all been planned to perfection, and you know full well that you can only leave this room when I say so.

I circle the frame, and you twist to keep me in your line of vision. It's no easy feat, the way that you're trussed. My thigh high boots click on the stone slabs as I slowly slide on a pair of PVC gloves, wet look, smooth and shiny. Your eyes are wide, tense with anticipation, and I know that my expression is giving nothing away. I could be cruel or I could be kind, and the choice is in my hands. Around my neck is a silk scarf, crimson, which adds a flash of colour to the all-black outfit I deliberately chose to evoke the strongest reactions from my subjects. As I step closer, my eyes fix on yours. I know what I look like to you, I sat in front of a mirror to painstakingly outline my eyes in thick kohl. My eyes are my most powerful feature, large and expressive, and right now they're flashing and flickering under the poor light in the room. No matter. You won't be able to see anything for much longer. In one swift movement I slip the scarf from my neck and wind it around your eyes, knotting it tightly so it won't possibly slip.

Deprived of sight, you look so still, so vulnerable. Your skin, smooth and bare, laid out in wait, stretched out like a canvas. Blank, but not for long. The oak trunk in the corner of the room contains the tools of my trade. In many ways this is a kind of art, and I treat it as such. I am careful, I am patient, and that way I produce beauty.

I circle the frame, admiring my subject. My heels click, so I know that you know I am watching, if not what I plan next. Perhaps you think I have no plan. Perhaps you are not concerned at all. And yet I make it my business to know what you're thinking, and I see the way you stiffen when you sense me moving closer. Scared, a little, and yet. My gaze slips down your chest, down your stomach, and rests there. I bite my lip to stop my breath from hitching, as after all I'm the one in control here. Silently, rocking up onto the balls of my feet to avoid my heels making a sound, I step forwards, wrapping a gloved hand around your cock. You gasp, and I smile. I keep all the essentials to hand, and the bottle of lubricant is tucked into my waistband, at the back, like a concealed weapon. I retrieve it and coat my palm, massaging the liquid slowly up and down your shaft: you twist and clench your teeth. You were half hard already, and I work you with my fingers, tantalisingly bringing you to the peak of arousal.

And then I stop. Your hips buck up just a little, in protest, as I remove my hand altogether. I pause just a moment, for dramatic effect, to make you wonder. But because I don't want you to think that I'm making this up as I go along, I don't wait for too long. My ears are pierced, and today I chose to wear hoops. Two large hoops, silver coloured. These are not the kind of earrings that hang from a hook attached to the lobe: the entire hoop is threaded through the piercing. Nor are they fastened with a hinge or a clip, but rather slot together as one whole circle. I was careful to choose a prop that could not catch on your delicate skin, that would not accidentally harm you. Any pain that occurs tonight will be on my terms, and it will not be an accident.

I pull each hoop open, removing them from my ears and closing them again. They now resemble two silver circlets, impossible even to tell their original purpose. Of course, they will have to be fully sterilised before I wear them as earrings before, given what I have planned. Your cock is thick and girthy, curving up towards your body, but I easily slip one hoop and then the other onto it, evenly spaced. They sit around the base, loosely, resting against your balls. I see you frown, your mouth twisted in a silent question. My lips quirk into a devious smirk: I have surprised you. You can't work out this sensation. Why would you, after all, expect that something so profane is to be the instrument of your torture? You saw the earrings earlier, before I blindfolded you, before I ordered you to strip and chained you to the frame, even. But you can't piece it together, and I enjoy seeing you so disarmed.

"Listen."

I do not have to speak loudly. It is only us two here. I am standing close to you, my lips in line with your ear. My voice is soft, measured, controlled.

"I have a little assignment for you." I take hold of one of the hoops and gently tug it: you wince "These are very special and I'm trusting you to take good care of them. If you let them fall onto the dirty floor, I will be very. displeased. Do you understand?"

"Yes, your highness." you reply, meekly, obediently, and of course only after I speak, as I've trained you.

Of course, it won't exactly be easy for you to keep the jewellery balanced. If you don't maintain your erection, they will slip onto the floor. I won't make it easy for you, but I certainly hope for your sake that you do your best to follow my instructions. I have a punishment planned for you if you fail your task and I won't be going easy on you. It's a shame, but I really must enforce my rules or standards might begin to slip. Your behaviour is a finely tuned machine which I have worked hard to hone and I can't allow you to question my authority.

"If you complete your task successfully," I purr, running a gloved hand through your hair "Then I will reward you."

"Thank you, your highness."

I step away, crossing the room to the wooden chest. It's unlocked and ready for use, and I push the lid open. Inside, organised neatly, I keep my toys. I run my fingers over the crops, paddles, and floggers, selecting the one I had envisioned when I planned this scene. I wonder if you can guess what I'm doing. I wonder which of my many whips and implements you think I'd pick, and how quickly you'll be able to guess once I apply it to your skin. The polished wooden handle fits easily into my palm, as it was made to, commissioned for my hand and weighted accordingly. I run my fingers through the purple falls, smoothing them out. I take a moment to appreciate the silence of the room, the calm. It's important to keep a sense of purpose in mind. I am perfectly in control and I work hard to make sure that's the case.

You've still maintained your upright posture, barely having moved since I turned away. Good. I want to encourage control and calm in you as well. Slowly, I approach you, moving to stand directly behind you, angling my stance so I could, should I choose to, whip you as hard as I physically can. The handcuffs and the frame are forcing you to stand with your legs spaced a fair bit apart, and I admire the curve of your back, the inviting slope of your neck, the way your buttocks tense and clench as I slowly run the falls of the flogger up your thighs. As you can't see me, you have no idea when the first blow will land, and when I swing the flogger and it catches you neatly across your arse, you yelp aloud in surprise. I didn't hit you hard, or at least not as hard as I will, but the skin is already beginning to redden nicely, in thin red stripes which unfortunately will soon fade. I pause before whipping you again, across the other cheek, then again immediately after. The second one makes you rock forwards, and the hoops around your cock clink lightly together.

"Careful," I admonish, and you straighten up.

I begin to hit you more rhythmically now, flicking and rotating my wrist so the blows rain down rapidly, alternating between hitting your arse and thighs. The whole area is bright red. You are coping very well, keeping your body still, and the hoops are still in place. As you begin to become accustomed to the whip, I adjust the power behind each stroke. The only sounds are the swish and thwack of the whip and occasionally a soft gasp and groan. I'm impressed with you for taking it so well, for showing so much dedication to the task. I can see sweat beading on your forehead from the effort it takes to stay focused. I do not relent, however. I know when I want to stop, and it isn't yet. You're so good, so obedient, but I want to push you a little more. I know you can do it.

Although careful not to drop the hoops (and what concentration it must be taking to maintain that hard on), your body has slumped forwards slightly from the force of the blows, your upper body is leaning and your head is lolling. My wrist is beginning to ache, and my masterpiece is coming together. The pale canvas I began with has been painted red, and on that, individual red welts are more clear, darker red, raised from the rest of the skin. There is no blood but the marks will not fade straightaway. I want to leave a reminder, so that every time you sit down you will feel it. You are panting softly, and each blow now renders a soft whimper. I drop the flogger to the floor with a clatter and peel the PVC glove from my dominant hand. I press my palm to your freshly whipped behind: it's red hot. I raise my hand and spank it sharply and you squeal in protest. Spanking is a different sensation to the flogger, a sharper and more stinging feeling, particularly when your arse is still so tender, so I am gentle with you. I alternate between stroking my fingertips over the welts and slapping your skin. There's something more intimate about using my hands for this, my bare skin. I do not only dominate you to hurt or punish you, but because I want to possess you entirely.

Straightening up, I press my body flush to yours. The metal of my jacket buttons press against your spine, and my arms circle your chest. You lean into me, your head rolling back onto my shoulder. You're passive, but not unresponsive, and that's how it should be: you're docile and willing to please. I take a handful of your hair to pull your head back further, and sink my teeth into your neck. You moan as I tighten my lips against your skin, creating a tight seal as I suck a mouthful of flesh, hard enough to bruise. I'm in the mood for leaving marks, and not only the ones that only I can see and only you can feel.

When I release your neck, and after admiring the rich purple-red bite encircled with teethmarks, I glance down at the hoops. Your erection has waned slightly, and I suppose that's to be expected, given the pain I've inflicted on you. And yet... and yet, you've passed my task, as you haven't dropped them.

"Well done." I murmur, brushing my lips up to the shell of your ear and licking it lightly.

You shiver: "thank you, your highness."

"And now for your reward."

I use one hand to swing myself around the side of the metal frame, and my hand is on your cock almost as soon as I've finished speaking. I slide the rings from off it, wrapping the fingers of the hand still encased in PVC around the base, and guiding it to my lips. This is precisely what I told you: this is not a power exchange, and sucking your cock does not make me submissive, but rather I have the power to inflict pleasure as well as pain and I think that you deserve a reward. Moreover, you look really fucking hot right now and I want to suck your cock. You're leaking pre-come and I lap it up, running my tongue along the length of you, tracing the veins which stand out under your skin, before taking the whole thing in my mouth. I'm certain I can feel you swell to hardness again against my lips, and I settle myself between your legs to suck you.

Using my gloved hand to stroke up and down your shaft, I mimic the movement with my lips, running them from tip to as close to the base as I can manage. The head of your cock bumps against the back of my throat and I hear a soft groan from above me. My other hand moves to squeeze and massage your balls as I move my mouth slowly, taking you in further, and then more quickly as I become accustomed to your thickness filling me. As I build up a more steady rhythm, more rapidly forcing you deep into my mouth, you begin to rock your hips slightly to match me and I slap your thigh slightly in warning: I told you at the beginning not to move and that rule still applies. You obey. You stay still, and so I continue to move. My mouth takes you deeper, far enough that I remove my hand, sliding my lips closer to your base. Your pubic hair brushes against my nose, and I inhale your scent: you're mine.

I uncap the lube and pour it liberally over my fingers. I can't see what I'm doing very well with your cock in my mouth, and the glove means I cannot feel the cold on my skin, but this isn't the first time I've done this: I don't spill a drop. My lubed fingers slide between the cleft of your buttocks, finding your arsehole. I can feel the tight ring of muscle clench even tighter, an automatic reaction to the discomfort you know will follow. Even though you well know that discomfort and pleasure are often intertwined. I persist, slipping one fingertip inside you, and I feel your cock pulse against my tongue. I meet less resistance than I'd expected and so I continue, pushing deeper. You're gasping, and the chains that secure your wrists are rattling. I add a second finger and you whimper: I can tell you're gritting your teeth to stay silent. I relent, keeping my fingers still and continuing to rock my mouth back and forth.

Although I intend to continue until you come, I'm taking my time. This isn't simply a reward for you, I wouldn't be doing this unless I liked it and I happen to enjoy the smell and taste of you, the sensation of your flesh: hard, but the skin soft and slick, sliding in and out of my mouth. It isn't simply a means to an end. I hope that you realise that I'm still perfectly in control. I could do this for hours, keeping you on the edge but not allowing release, and I know that I'm still toeing the line between torture and ecstasy. I've kept you up on your feet, chained as you are, forced to stay perfectly still, and I know how your body must ache, how your skin burns from the lashing of my whip. You long for release in every sense, and only I have the power to give it to you.

Your body is a loaded gun and my finger is literally on the trigger. I curve it upwards, stretching my two fingers up and forwards, finding that spot deep inside you: it's more difficult to feel my way when my hand is encased in PVC, but I know I've hit the right spot when you tense and moan. I keep my fingers in place, rubbing and massaging, and keeping the pace of my mouth, my lips tight around you. I don't get any warning, and I think your orgasm takes you by surprise as well. You arch and groan, high and breathy and loud, and I feel your cock throb and spurt thick and salty into my mouth. It fills my mouth and I swallow, and swallow again, and keep on doing until you're done.

I don't do anything I don't want to do. You're my sub, I'm the one who holds the whip. I could have spat your ejaculate over your feet. But I swallow because I like the proof of your pleasure slipping down my throat. Slowly pulling my mouth away and sliding my fingers from out of you, I push myself to my feet and remove my glove. I drop it onto the floor. Clean up will happen later, and I pride myself on being thorough, hygienic, and careful. But there is something else that requires care first.

In the inside of my tailcoat, in a small secret pocket, I keep the key to the padlocks which seal your handcuffs. I unlock each one in turn before unbuckling the cuffs themselves, starting with the wrists and then each ankle. I expected your arms to drop limply to your sides once they were freed from the restraints holding them up, but you keep them held aloft until I gently reach up to take your hands, helping you to step forwards. I reach up and untie the blindfold, letting it fall and rest around your shoulders. You look so beautiful, your cheeks flushed and your eyes dark, blinking as you adjust to the light, dim as it is. I gather the scarf around your neck and use it to lead you towards the door. You follow, quiet and obedient. I unbolt the door, and hand you the soft towel robe hanging on the back of it. While you wrap it around yourself, I quickly take off my clothes, starting with the boots. These clothes stay in this room. Everything stays in this room. We strip it all off and leave it behind, seal it off until the next time.

When I'm naked, I put on my own robe. It's soft against my bare skin. We don't say a word until we walk up the basement steps, push open the door at the top, and I lock it behind us. The spell is broken. No longer in the dark room, we stand on soft carpet in the brightly lit, perfectly decorated hallway of an ordinary home, our ordinary home. I look you in the eye for the first time since we shed our roles, and you wrap your arms around me. My sub would have been whipped for such an imposition, but you aren't my sub right now. I circle your waist with my arms, careful to keep them above your sore behind, and rest my head to your chest.

"How was that?" you murmur.

"You were perfect." I stroke gentle circles at the base of your spine with the tip of my thumb "I'm so proud."

Down there, I whip you and torment you and use you as I please. But right now, up here in our home, I want nothing more than to take a warm relaxing bubble bath and to be as close to you as I possibly can. I want to kiss you slowly and passionately and spend the evening with our bodies wrapped around each other. You're still mine, maybe, but only as far as I'm yours too, and really we're nobody's. We're two people with our own thoughts and feelings, and although we might play that rope and chains are the things that bind us, there's nothing forcing either of us to stay together. But we want to. We want to, and that's more than enough.