**This story is written from the perspective of a male submissive.**
Chapter 1
I had never known leather could be so soft. The way it kisses your skin, wraps around you so tightly, so snug, that it becomes a part of you. A second layer of flesh with its own sensations and textures. I can feel everything through the leather; the lightest touch gives me goose bumps, the brush of a finger sends chills down my spine.
It feels comforting, as if I am five again and wrapped up in covers, safe from everything outside my cocoon of fabric and warmth. In here, inside this second skin of leather, no one can hurt me.
Hurting me is another matter entirely. There is a very fine line between pleasure and pain, so fine that I can only describe it as an E string on a violin, thinner than a needle and so easily broken. The E string provides a barrier much more fragile than we are led to believe. Even stepping close to the line is enough to send us over the edge. Too much pleasure can cause unexpected pain and leave a person wary of attention, while too much pain, though it does not exactly give us pleasure per say, releases chemicals to block receptors in the brain so our bodies go pleasantly numb. This line, this string, is held in balance when pain and pleasure are combined in the most exquisite and erotic ways, leaving the receiver to question themselves, but still begging for more.
I'm not completely covered in leather, that isn't really my thing, but a hood, a hood I can do. Blind, gagged, almost deaf, I'm trust into my own little world. I'm left with nothing but my own thoughts, which can be just as terrifying as the real world. I was fifteen when I discovered it. All I saw was one picture, a photograph of a naked man kissing a woman's foot while she posed, whip in hand.
The photograph sparked an obsession, website to website, book after book. I didn't dare watch the pornography until I fully understood what I was getting into. I had discovered a world, a completely new way of being that didn't include income, status, even who you are in real life doesn't even matter. I was free, freer than I had ever been before. Freer than when I had moved away from home, freer than living in this country, freer than the sailor who explores the oceans. Freedom that I had never experienced was what drove me to look deeper into myself and discover who I really was.
I waited until I was in college to attempt finding a partner; she was a nice girl, a sophomore. We had mutual feelings for each other and she was willing to try what I asked of her, but she couldn't bring herself to raise the whip. That was her only fear; she didn't want to hurt me, even if it was what I wanted. Without that sweet taste of pain, nothing could be achieved, the scene was never complete. I had never considered myself a masochist, but my new desires left me drooling for the smallest pin prick, anything to get me to the edge.
I flex my toes a little, so she knows I'm still anxiously awaiting her attention. She makes me sweat like this, I can feel my back slowly becoming sticky, unable to guess her next move. I take a deep breath and clear my mind so that I can focus on her. Find her somewhere in this void of darkness that I know is a room.
We are in her basement, a room I know to have beautiful maroon walls and oak furniture. There is a table with some chairs, a chest where she keeps her things, a closet and a door that leads to a small bathroom. She has all the necessary things, the pulley system that can hold the correct amount of weight, the set ups that only She knows how to work, her own private world. My home is not an option: an apartment with thin walls, nosy neighbors and the nasty habit of attracting family to drop by unexpectedly. It does not work for our appetites.
My private life is even a secret to those closest to me. They would not understand my reasons, my needs, the burning inside my chest an insatiable desire. It might be a different story if I was in the other position, but that is not to my tastes. I have tried it once, to see what it was like. I found it almost boring, nowhere near as exciting or wonderful as my usual role. I haven't tried it since and have no plans to. I do not have the tendencies to switch.
I met her two years ago, exploring the scene in Chicago for the first time. I was invited to watch her a few times before I asked her. Angela, who owns the house, recommended I understand what she was like; she was different from the others. It only took one time, one private viewing to know that She was the one. I felt everything she did to him, as though I were there in his place and she was playing with me.
Finally I feel the sting of the cane on the heel of my foot, a warning for what is coming. Beneath the hood I bite my lip, steeling myself for the blows I know will come. She starts lightly at first; she always does, testing me. As though she still can't believe that this is what I want. Each strike falls harder and harder on my bare ass until I cry out against the leather, tears welling in my eyes. This pattern of waiting for the cane continues for almost another hour, until the sweat from my back drips onto the cold tile floor. Only then does she lower the rope suspension, easing me from for feet off the ground to the floor, setting me among pillows she has laid down.
The ropes are then untied so that I can stretch out and relax. My long legs ache from being bent and I raise my arms above my head to quell the burn in my elbows. The hood is unlaced from behind after it is removed I keep my eyes closed while she slips on and adjusts a blindfold. I accept a glass of water and slowly sip it, cool relief washing over my parched mouth. After enduring the hour, I will not be tied for the rest of the session that is my reward. I take another sip of the water as she issues her first command of the night:
"I am thirsty." Most would think it a selfish statement, after all, I am the one who has endured so much tonight. But I know her better. This is a test to see if I can still put her before me, even when pushed to my limits.
