Sable

I call her Sable when we are together, and she is sleek and beautiful, her skin is warm and tanned lightly, smooth when I touch it with my fingertips. If we are at her office, I call her Doctor, as she is that very thing, an internist, and a very good one. She is remarkably witty, funny and brilliant, with a wicked sense of play, and I love all of this about her. She is in her 40's but looks much younger, with long beautiful legs that go up and up, it seems. Her students do not usually see this, but she has a very good figure, and she is conscientious about exercise and care of herself. Her breasts are firm and full, and she has beautiful slim hands and long slender arms. Sable is a runner, but I have not the patience for it. Ian runs with her at times, but Eric and I prefer to use the gym or Wii, and Sable scoffs at that and teases us.

There are some of her colleagues at the campus where she teaches medicine, who find her stern, quiet, unemotional. This is because she is dedicated and passionate about teaching. She enjoys it, and she is a wonderful teacher. She is an equally marvelous doctor, and maintains a small group of patients. She is partners with 3 other doctors, and they enjoy the referrals, the patients, who are sent to them through Sable's energetic enthusiasm in teaching and lecturing, on campus and elsewhere.

We met when I began my residency, and she became tutor, mentor, and then my mistress. Dearest Sable, with ebony hair and blue eyes that shimmer with passion and life. She is tall, taller than me, as tall as Ian, and he is six feet. Some women who are tall try to slouch, to bend over a little, as though that would somehow make them suddenly shorter. Sable does not do that. She stands tall and proud and wears heels that lift her even higher. I love her heels. I love her.

My own hair is ebony now; it's her choice for me, for now. I do not have her blue eyes. Mine are hazel, but she is thinking of changing that, too, with contacts. She changes the way I look at times, as though I were her doll, but she does not try to change me. I like that. She enjoys me as I am, her only female in her little flock of slaves.

Ian and I live with her; we are both in medical school, and there are many who admire Sable for caring so deeply, mentoring so well, that she helps some students even with housing. We nod and smile, Ian and I. Eric stays at times over the weekends, but he has not asked to live there, and Sable has not pressured him. I think it is because Ian has developed a fondness for Eric, and Eric is not certain how he feels.

I am grateful that I am here, because I am the only female that Sable owns at this time. There was a woman, a few years older than me, who grew tired of medical school and the stress, yet could not seem to find what else to do in life. Sable finally told her to leave. Sable has no patience for those who cannot commit.

I am small, petite, so perhaps I am her doll, though she does love me to undress, more than I dress. But my breasts are full, and she enjoys playing with them, or watching Ian or Eric torment me. Sometimes, when I am in her office on campus, sorting her papers, readying a stack for grading or bringing her coffee, she will have me to close her office door, and lock it. There is a large brass coat hanger on the back of her closet door in the office, and I have heard some admire it, and Sable to say with sincerity that it came from an old house in England, which is true. I will smile to myself. She had Ian install the hangar and test it himself, and it is sturdy. While the music plays in her office softly, and students can be heard outside, yelling back and forth to each other as they walk to class, sometimes Sable has had me to undress before her, in that office, as she watches, a pencil tapping her beautiful red lips. She will say nothing unless I am too fast, or if she has little time, she will motion for me to go a little faster. Sable watches, saying nothing, and outside her windows three levels above the pavement, the world walks by, knowing nothing of her office. When I am done undressing, and if she has time and must grade papers, or study records of her patients, she will smile and merely nod towards the closet door, and I obey.

The hangar is a much stronger metal than mere brass, I know. Ian described it at dinner one night, as he and Eric and I ate in the room behind Sable's kitchen. Ian knows a great deal about woodworking and is a wonderful handyman. He believes it is iron, possibly steel, with a coating so it would appear to be a richer man's brass, but Sable will not allow him to scratch the surface or determine. We only know that it is very strong.

So in her office, over the door to her closet, jutting out over the floor by several inches away from the door, is the magnificent brass-looking hangar, and Sable rummages through a lovely wooden box of cedar that Ian made for her. She carefully sets aside the lock and pulls out the items she's chosen for that day: a length of chain that is narrow, strong. My leather wrist and ankle restraints, which I quickly buckle on. More rummaging, and I hear the clank of things in the box. She pulls out some rope, strips of leather. I am excited, but I say nothing. She will want me to watch and wonder and not ask. I obey her, silently. My wrist and ankle restraints are buckled on and ready. Sable has finished pulling out the things she chooses for this day, and motions. I move to the door, turn, my back pressed against the door. Sable towers over me. I am short, as I said, but now I am naked and have no heels to raise my height even the smallest bit. She smiles at me, and I shiver. She is in a wicked mood.

Ian spent several weekends on the very next toy that Sable loves dearly. I do, too. There are several of these in her house, but only one in this office. On each side of the door, snapped into hiding on each side of the bottom of the door, are what appears to be, if anyone bothers to notice at all, brass strips that seem to be there for mere decoration, to complement the hangar, perhaps.

She leans down and uses a file to pry first one, then the second, down, and listens for them to snap and lock into place. They will not move now until she presses the buttons Ian so cleverly hid among what looks to be decoration.

They fit into the door and hide the bolts, but now that the strips are down and locked in place, the bolts are there, ready. Sable snaps the links of my ankle restraints into the bolts, one leg pulled to each side of the strong door. She braces it with a clever device Ian constructed, so now it will not try to shut and damage the metal bolt holders at the foot of the door, nor swing about wildly. My ankles restrained, she stands up and looks at me for a moment. I wait patiently and look at her eyes. She has told us never to look away from her unless she orders it; she finds it exciting that we are intelligent and choose to obey her; that we see her eyes, and we see and know that she is thinking, just then, of new ways to torment and torture us. It is a pleasure of its own, seeing her eyes change as she arrives at what she will do next.

She pulls over a small metal trolley, removing the cover, fiddling with it a bit. I stand, naked, listening to voices fading outside as students enter classrooms. Only occasionally do I hear muted voices, as one asks another about a test, or calls out to phone later. I hear a sound and focus again on Sable.

She has decided on ultrasound today. I am glad but shiver. It is not a type used for sounding babies, but of a machine she got from a chiropractor friend of hers. The current causes the small tabs to make the muscles and skin below writhe and twitch, slowly or more frequently. Sable has a number of tabs. I am patient and say nothing as she works swiftly. She has set aside 2 hours for grading papers and left orders with her secretary not to be disturbed. Papers will be graded, yes. But not yet.

The tabs are stuck onto my skin and stay in place from the mild adhesive, a wire running from each tab to the machine. Sable places them on each side of my clit, and two on the clit; on the insides of my thighs where the groin joins; between my legs below the lips, and two she places at the base of the lips. Four remaining tabs go to my nipples, one on each side. She is whistling softly now. Some would be surprised that Sable whistles at all. She is enjoying herself. She steps back a time or two, then forward again, adjusting.

She is done, satisfied, and nods once. She waves one hand up, and I raise my arms overhead. Sable pulls a braided rope over the strong hangar over my head, and one end drops down a little; the other end, she ties loosely to the door handle, for now. My clips on my wrist restraints are snapped onto hooks braided into the end of the rope. She tugs at the other end a time or two, then again; nods once more. It is sturdy, and safe. She pulls that end of the rope down, down, until my feet rise a little and I am on my toes, barely, and stretched very tightly. Sable neatly ties the rope onto the hangar, firmly, and we both know that it will not become loose. She is an expert at knots, my Sable, my queen of pain and pleasure. She could, if the bolts were not open at the bottom of the door, pull that door to and fro, and I would swing helplessly from it, should she choose. But the door will not move until she allows it; the knot will not come untied until she chooses. I am helpless, naked. Hers.

She is amused and smiles slightly, a Mona Lisa look I know well. She sees in my eyes that little bit of fear and excitement I have. I wonder, what else will she do? But soon I know.

Today it is pain, and I will have to work to overcome it and have pleasure, so she may have pleasure, watching me, tormented, in pain, until I orgasm for her. It will please her, and it will please her even more, knowing that I have had to suffer and work to go beyond the pain. She will enjoy watching me try.

She is whistling again, and I know that in a way, this is not good for me; it means she is far from done, and she knows that I am anxious about the whistling, and she looks at me again, smiling more broadly this time, her white teeth, the crimson lips, her beautiful face. She tweaks one of my nipples playfully.

Her next move is a small box I know well. I do not groan when I see it, but I do know it well. Her harshest clamps are in here. She is in an evil mood today. Some staff meeting, perhaps, that was a bit too long, a tad too boring; new paperwork, maybe, or something that has caused dear Sable, slender beautiful Sable, to be annoyed, and a great need to remove her stress. I will help her with that in several ways.

And the first way -- I wince a little -- is when she twists one of my nipples with her fingers, pulls it out, out a little more, and snaps a clover clamp onto the flesh between breast and nipple, on the under side of that nipple. She keeps the nipple stretched, pulled out, and snaps another clover clamp onto the flesh on the top side, in the area where flesh turns to nipple, and continues until she has four clover clamps pinching the tender flesh of that nipple, and the same done to the other in turn. Each nipple bulges out beyond the clamps, protruding, and she flicks one with thumb and forefinger at one point. The nipples are already swelling a little.

She continues, working with clamps, with clothespins, alternating and working her way around my breasts, at times holding my breast in one of her hands, smoothing flesh with her fingers, and at one time, biting one of my swelling nipples. I jerk a little, and she looks up at me, her eyes smiling, and I feel her teeth bounce a little against the tip of my nipple, nibbling it, biting a little.

Clamps are added to the underneath of my breasts, and to the sides of the breasts, until both breasts begin to throb and feel warm, and sting. She moves to my waist and pulls up skin between her fingers, and traps it between the teeth of the simple wooden clothespins, so ordinary, so painful. She fits a clothespin at my navel, so it is pinching the skin at the entrance to my navel, and then she places a second clothespin, also at the entrance to my navel, one part of each clothespin dipping inside my navel, the other part, grabbing up tender skin at my waist. I whimper a little, and she shushes me, and I quieten. I feel her hand reach between my legs to soothe me, her long slim fingers sliding down, down, pressing up between my legs, and I close my eyes -- only to open them with a hiss when her mouth comes down on my nipple again, her tongue licking a little, her teeth biting me. I feel her fingers, that have shown us in classes how to do simple medical exams in future, now I feel those fingers slide into me a little, teasing, pressing. I moan as quietly as I can, and I close my eyes a little. She is very pleased. Her thumb moves over my clit a little, then her fingers slide out of me, and I whimper again. I want her again, but she laughs a little and kisses my mouth. She is not finished.

Her fingers move quickly, snapping clover clamps, clothespins, alligator clamps which she carefully showed to me first, watching my eyes follow them as she allowed them to snap and snap, then laughing as she whispered how they would now snap onto my flesh. And she was right. My eyes were wide and my mouth open, but I did not make any noise, though I wanted to. This was part of my struggle, and my gift for her. And this pleased her, too.

Sable is very fond of the sensitive flesh where the legs and groin join, on either side of the clit; fleshy, puffy, sensitive, and very erotic for me. She knows this. She enjoys knowing this, and using this. The alligator clamps went there, and I could not help it, the whimper this time, and a few tears. It hurt very much. The insides of my thighs were on fire from pain; my clit had alligator clamps and clover clamps on it, around it, beside it. My lips had alligator clamps on them, and I knew what this would mean. My waist sported a row of clamps and clothespins; my breasts were porcupined with them. My nipples were swollen more now, a purplish red, and everywhere throbbed, and I knew, this was nowhere close to being done.

I was right about the alligator clamps on the lips. She tugged at them, knelt, and I heard the clink and chink and clank of fine chains, of what I knew would be small weights, because she had had me to clean them many times, and place them carefully in her boxes, so I would see them and know the weight of them, and fear them, anticipate them.

She would hook a chain to the end of an alligator clamp and tell me, sometimes stand and show me, the weight that she was about to add to the end of that chain. Then she would clip it on to the dangling end of the chain, lift it, and then allow it to fall, sometimes an inch or two, sometimes a little further. It jerked and pulled and hurt, and I closed my eyes and tears came down my cheeks, but I did not cry out. She worked more, and I realized then, whatever meeting or event had caused her stress, she was upset and irked, and far more than I had seen or known.

She had added, she told me between whistling, some twenty small chains dangling from my lips, from the flesh on either side of my clit, and finally, one from the end of each swollen, tender, nipple, and let each one drop and swing, back and forth, at times watching them, at times, lifting them again and allowing them to drop, yet again, watching my eyes, telling me to open them, and to watch her. I bit my lip once, and she shoved her leg between mine, and pressed her weight against the clamps, and I said "Oh!" against her shoulder, as she leaned into me, pressing, rolling her thigh back and forth a little.

I could only focus on little areas of pain on my nipples and breasts, my clit, my lips, my thighs, my waist, and hoped she would not add more, but if she did, if she wanted to, then she would do so. I felt her fingers between my legs again, and I hoped she would put them inside me. She did for a moment, though not far, but I felt something small and cold, metal, slide inside me, and then her fingers left me. She stepped back, looking, thinking, as though I were a piece of art. Perhaps I was, for she took out her camera then and took pictures of me, and I knew later she would show them to us, Ian and Eric and I, and talk about this. She would enjoy that. It excited me when she did that, but for now, I could only feel the warmth and the pain of each area around each clamp, each pin, spreading further.

Sable smiled, a wicked smile, and she turned knobs on the ultrasound machines. Machines! When had she pulled over the second one? I did not know. I was in more pain than I had known. But she was watching me, carefully, and she began the machines so that the small pads that were taped to my flesh, my clit, my nipples where those were not clamped, the labia -- I began to feel very slightly, as though in the distance, a small sensation of movement from those pads. But it was not enough, as the pain was growing.

Sable knew this, and she turned the knobs again, so that the pulse began to come a little faster, a little stronger, though still not enough. It was frustrating for me, for I yearned to be free of this pain. I could not move, my hands overhead, my body stretched, my legs out to each side of the door. I felt the weight of the chains, and the weights linked to them in turn, tugging, pulling down and down, making the sharp teeth of the alligator clamps bite and dig into my flesh. It hurt.

She laughed softly and turned the knobs yet again, and in a few minutes of watching me struggle to work past pain, she turned the knobs again, and yet again. Each time,, I began to feel a little more of the sensation of movements from the pads; the cringing, pulsing waves that began to be stronger, more frequent. She adjusted two of them, at one point, bringing them in closer to my clit, and I sucked in my breath. I tried to move my hips a little, and she saw this, of course. She pulled on the rope that held my hands above my head, then untied it briefly, pulled it much tauter, then retied and knotted it overhead. I could move even less now than before. My belly was dipped in, and this excited her. She smoothed it gently with her hand, beginning just under my painful breasts with their clamps and weights, and running her hand firmly down my belly to my navel, at times pulling a clothespin back a little, then releasing it suddenly, so it would jerk back and forth on my navel and hurt. I cried out a little, softly, and she turned up the classical music a little more. No one would hear, though. She added another small clamp to the very end of my clamp, and kept one hand pressed over my mouth when she released it, and it snapped shut on the end of my clit, knowing it would hurt. Her hand muffled my yell. My tears rolled from my cheeks to the back of her hand, and she licked her hand, watching me.

She turned up the knobs again, then again, then yet again. The pulse was so rapid and so strong, that my nipples and clit, the lips, the insides of my thighs, all began beating to the same rhythm, all began pulsing together, it felt. And that was when the pain began to finally melt a little into pleasure. But Sable was not done with me, and she laughed again. She leaned closer to me, one hand bracing her against the door frame, and the other hand, oh, the beautiful hand, sliding down my sides, onto the metal hurting my clit, exciting it, playing with it, while she whispered that she was enjoying me, watching me squirm, watching me struggle, and that the only way I would be freed was if I pleased her, and I knew how to please her, didn't I? I nodded, fast, eager, hoping she would be pleased now, and let me go. But she laughed and shook her head. No.