Author's note: Here's Chapter Two of "Slave Girl Emily," the story of a submissive with an assertive streak. In Chapter One she met a boy named Andrew, and they made a stumbling start playing Master and slave. Unfortunately, that relationship didn't last. Now on her own, she introduces herself to New York's BDSM scene. Tags: BDSM, Bondage, Whipping, Humiliation, Anal Sex.
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Chapter 2. Play Party
He's left my legs frogtied, but cuffed my wrists behind me. My torso's elaborately bound - I'm hanging from the ceiling, body flat, face down about three feet above the floor. My wrists are resting between my ass cheeks, hands so close to my pussy. I stretch my fingers but can't reach. If only I could touch my clitoris!
"Master, please," I whisper, but I know it's useless. He'll give me an orgasm when he wants me to have it, not when I want it.
He circles me slowly, taking time to admire his work, watch me squirm, or maybe think about how best to please himself. He pauses in front of me, and I raise my head to look at him. He meets my gaze for a few seconds, then seems to come to a decision. He strides over to a cabinet behind me, opens it, and takes out something I can't see.
Soon I feel a cool, hard dildo enter my vagina. My pussy feels a little tingly. Gradually the sensation becomes more definite, and within a minute the tingling has turned to a heavy thrumming, a pleasure so intense it's nearly pain. I close my eyes and enjoy it. Surely he'll let me come soon . . .
* * *
Kevin said, "You do what you would after any breakup. You take some time to heal and evaluate, and then you look for a new relationship."
We were sitting in a Village coffee shop. Telling my story had made me cry again.
He laid a hand on mine and said, "This was always going to happen, you know. Andrew was a forceful personality, but he wasn't a Dom, not really. He could learn the moves and have fun playing Master, but it was never more than a game to him. It was only a matter of time before he got tired of it. You're the real thing, though. Like me. I've always sensed it in you."
I sighed and said, "I think maybe I've been looking for a Dom since my first date. I went out with a sort of caveman in high school, then a series of athletes in college, and finally Andrew. Funny thing is, I didn't expect much from Andrew, but he was the best of them."
"It isn't a violent nature or a strong body that makes you a Dom," said Kevin, "but an ability to control yourself and others. You need a lot of different talents to do that well - not only the ones you'd expect, but also understanding, empathy, and compassion."
I spent the summer between my junior and senior years in New York, waitressing and rooming with friends. I started going to munches with Kevin - sub-only ones at first, since he didn't think I was ready to cope with Doms hitting on me, and I had to agree. On his advice, I adopted a scene name. I introduced myself as Famula at these affairs - it was a Latin word I'd learned from Andrew, meaning female slave. It didn't take long to make a number of friends, and soon I was spending more time with them than with my old friends. There's no BDSM look - not for wearing in public, anyway - but I started to change my appearance, edging towards the emo look that my new friends said suited me.
Towards the end of summer, two friends, Maddie and Evelyn, both in their thirties and in relationships with Doms, decided they wanted to take me to a mixed munch, an evening affair held in a downtown bar. Many of the people there knew my escorts, but I was a new face, and within minutes we were surrounded by a little crowd of men eager to introduce themselves to me, telling me their real or scene names and offering cards with their email addresses and phone numbers on them. It was flattering to be the center of attention - nothing like this had ever happened to me before - but their obvious hunger was unnerving.
Evelyn muttered, "New meat."
I managed to keep my cool, accept their cards, and deflect their attentions. After five or six men had made their pitches, there was just one left. He'd been hanging back, chatting with some of the couples. He approached me when the coast was clear, smiled warmly, introduced himself as Frederick (not Lord Thor or Painmaster Zog), and welcomed me to the group. People dress conservatively at munches, but still Frederick, in slacks and a light blue shirt with rolled up sleeves, didn't look much like a kinkster. He was in his mid-thirties, lean and hard, with short sandy hair and a close-cropped beard.
It's not easy to make conversation at a BDSM social, since questions about life outside the scene are considered unacceptable prying, and I, at least, am not comfortable discussing the details of my sex life with total strangers. So while people around us were talking about the pros and cons of various whips or the best position for anal sex, I was feeling even more tongue tied than usual.
Frederick found a conversational opening in my empty wine glass. "Can I refill that for you?" he said.
"Thanks," I said. "It's white."
He said, "They've got a terrific Pinot Grigio here - I discovered it just a few days ago. It's perfect for August."
"It sounds lovely," I said.
While he was away at the bar, Maddie said, "Do you want us to get lost?"
"I'll whip you if you do," I said.
"Ooooh," said Maddie. It's really hard to threaten a sub.
Frederick handed me my glass and watched closely as I took a sip.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"You were right," I said. "It's perfect for August."
He looked pleased. I was pleased that he looked pleased, and a little disgusted with myself for being so pleased.
He said, "They say you can tell a lot about people from what they're drinking. Some say that people who prefer white are shy."
I was feeling shy just then. "That sounds plausible," I said.
"Of course, there's always an alternative explanation. You might be drinking white because it's refreshing on a hot night. That would make you a practical sort."
That hadn't occurred to me, but now that he mentioned it, it seemed right. "I'm sure that's it," I said.
Evelyn said, "When people don't drink, that says something about them, too. You don't have a drink, Frederick."
He smiled and said, "I don't like losing control. I had one glass of wine when I got here, and that's my limit."
Suddenly I felt self-conscious about my second glass. "I guess I must not feel the same way about self-control," I said.
"In this group," he said, "people either like to control or be controlled. Whoever's in control should be sober."
"In that case," I said, smiling, "I guess I can have a third."
He laughed. "I'll be interested to see if you do. People in the lifestyle, both Doms and subs, are pretty abstemious."
"I've noticed that," I said. "I'll bet they hate us here, taking up all this valuable space and hardly spending any money."
"They're okay with it, as long as we don't dress up and scare away the tourists."
"What do you wear when you dress up?" I asked.
"A three-piece suit."
I wasn't sure if he was joking, but decided it was safe to laugh.
"And you?" he asked.
"A slave doesn't need an elaborate costume," I said, "and that's lucky, because I can't afford much."
"I'd like to see your slave costume sometime," he said.
I could feel myself blush under his gaze. I wanted to say something clever, but nothing came to mind. I wanted to show him my slave outfit, but decided not to say that.
Frederick said, "Do you mind if I ask what drew you to the lifestyle?"
The questions were getting personal, and my face heated up even more. "It's not kinky sex," I said. "Ever since I was small I've wanted someone to discipline me and . . . make me behave. In college I got interested in slavery, and realized I needed somebody to own me."
"You don't have an owner now?"
"No - not anymore."
"I've had subs," he said, "but never a slave."
I had nothing to say to that.
His phone beeped. He took it out of his pants pocket, looked at it, and said, "I have to go. I've enjoyed talking to you, and if you'd like to talk some more, I think we'd have a lot to discuss."