The Weekend Pt 01 06

The Weekend -- Part 1, The Arrival

I eagerly await your arrival with a mixture of anticipation and fear. We have talked about this weekend for a very long time and I can't believe it has finally arrived. We have negotiated as thoroughly as we can possibly think to negotiate. Part of me worries that the negotiation will ruin the weekend -- the element of surprise is gone. The rest of me is well aware that the negotiations have hardly prepared me for the reality of what is to come. The reality... oh my god. Did I say eagerly awaiting? Did I say anticipation? Fucking hell. I'm ready to run for the hills right this second. I cannot do this.

I hear your knock on the door. My heart leaps in my chest and the butterflies threaten to beat their way out of my stomach. I briefly imagine pretending like I'm not home, but there is a dark part of me that craves this... aches for it. Besides, I already confirmed that I was home when we talked on the phone an hour ago. Oops. I go to the door and peek to ensure it is you on the other side. I wouldn't be surprised if you can hear my knees knocking or my unsteady breathing through the door.

I take a moment to collect myself, failing utterly, and open the door. I step behind it so as not to display my nakedness to my unsuspecting neighbors across the street and to give myself one more moment's reprieve before I must face the inevitable.

You step inside and close the door behind you. I am left trembling against the wall, bereft of the door that was shielding me from you. I keep my eyes low, too terrified to meet your gaze. I can feel your eyes burning my flesh as you take me in. You move slowly—as if to avoid startling a skittish animal—locking the door behind you, settling your bag on the floor just inside the door. Your eyes never leave me. I pray desperately for the floor to open and swallow me up; I want very much to hide from you. Instead, I stand there and fidget, breathing unsteadily, staring at the uncooperative floor.

You raise a finger slowly to lift my chin, holding it there until my eyes flicker nervously to yours and then away again. I hear your breathing shift to intentionally slow, deep breaths. I know you are doing this to calm me, to bolster me, to reassure me. This is one of the methods we discussed for handling my fear and trigger finger for calling the whole thing off. You give me time to adjust, simply breathing deeply and patiently waiting. My eyes flicker to yours and away a few more times before I finally manage to hold your gaze steadily.

Your eyes are smiling, welcoming, gentle. But there is also a wicked light in them that stops my breath in my throat. Reality is here and now. Oh my god!

We stand like this for a few moments more... until my breathing matches yours, slow and deep. Your eyes are dancing, infectious. I feel the burn of desire overwhelm the fear, my hunger flaring. And then your hand closes around my throat, pinning me to the wall, inhibiting my air flow, your gaze turning dark and dangerous.

The wind is knocked from me, literally and figuratively. I struggle for breath, remembering why I was afraid. Your mouth closes over mine, your lips, tongue, and teeth claiming me with a possessive, almost angry attack. My lips are bruised and swollen, my thoughts foggy from a shortage of oxygen when you finally pull back. Your hand slides from my throat to fist in my hair. I drag in desperate breaths, relieved to have the air flowing unimpeded.

Your hand twists in my hair, gripping firmly. Your free hand slaps my face, sharp and hard. I am caught off guard even though I expected it at some point. The hand in my hair tightens until I drop to my knees even as my mind drops into the subspace I have been craving.

The Weekend -- Part 2, Consent

I am on my knees in front of you, my back against the wall, your fist in my hair holding me steady. I am vaguely aware that we have not exchanged any verbal greetings even though you have been here for at least 10 minutes. I am too foggy to analyze why, but somehow it seems fitting.

You stroke my face with your fingers and I lean into your touch as much as I can. Each time your fingers lift from my face, I steel myself for another slap, but you simply move your fingers and continue stroking. My tension grows with each undelivered slap and I begin to shake. I want to scream, but there is really nothing to scream about. Yet. Your quiet laugh is somehow gentle and cruel at the same time. I suspect you know exactly what I'm expecting and that you are deliberately toying with me, allowing my overactive imagination to get the better of me.

Your hand eventually stills on my face, your palm cupping my cheek. You squat in front of me and turn my face so that your lips are against my ear. Your voice is low when you speak. There is no greeting, just this terrifying reminder, "You are mine. There is no safeword unless you are in danger of being harmed." I hide my face against your chest, remembering our discussions about the difference between being hurt and being harmed. There is no doubt that you will hurt me.

You pull back to look me in the eye and then ask, "Shall we begin?" My throat clenches and words escape me. I don't think I can answer you, but I know I must; it is part of our negotiation. My eyes well with tears as I fight to utter the words. It is so incredibly difficult for me to speak when I am anywhere near subspace. I like to hide in my silence.

I have practiced these words over and over since we first negotiated them. I repeated them aloud when I was alone and in my head when I was out and about. I hugged the fantasy to myself, bouncing giddily over it for weeks, but the reality carries a sense of helpless terror and a massive head rush. What the fuck am I doing?

Your eyes are locked on mine. Each time I try to shift my gaze or turn my head to hide, the hand in my hair drags me back. My voice is strained and the words halting, but I finally manage to answer, "I am yours. There is no safeword unless I am in danger of being harmed."

A sense of powerlessness washes over me, along with an urge to rear up and rebel. I want to reassert my control, renounce my abdication. I want to... FUCK! The slap on my face is sudden and hard. I squeal and try to pull away, but the hand in my hair is unrelenting. More slaps follow. I sob and try to block my face with my hands.

You hiss a single, threatening word, "Hands!" I hurriedly drop my hands to my lap, lacing the fingers tightly to keep them out of your way. The slaps continue... every one I expected earlier and then some. The rebellion fizzles and I find my way back into subspace, a few slow tears slipping down my reddened cheeks.

With your hand still in my hair, you pull me away from the wall and steer me through the house on my hands and knees. I crawl gingerly on the hard entryway floor, thankful when I reach the modicum of comfort in the carpeted living room. My comfort is short-lived when I find myself facing the sliding glass door into the backyard. You unlock the door and slide it open, pushing me forward onto the deck. It isn't the hard wood of the deck that discomforts me now, but rather the bright sun streaming onto my naked body. The privacy fences will keep most eyes at bay, but... what if? What if?! Oh my god.

The Weekend -- Part 3, The Great Outdoors

It is a beautiful summer afternoon. The weekend weather forecast is perfect. Perfect if one's goal is to be outside. Not so perfect if one is hoping to have an excuse to stay inside. But who am I kidding? I am thrilled. Terrified. Tingling. Trembling. Oh, and wet, even if it isn't particularly alliterative.

I kneel on the hard wood of my deck, aware of every inch of my nakedness exposed to the warmth of the sun and the great outdoors. You tighten the fist in my hair and propel me forward. I have a quick flash of self-recrimination for not taking better care of my lawn. It is full of the prickly balls from the sweetgum trees that sit just outside my back fence. Ow! Best not to crawl on those. I carefully pick my way through them, thankful that you don't appear to be in any hurry.

We stop at the center of the backyard. Despite the warmth of the sun, I shiver from nervous anticipation. My mind races as I wonder what comes next. My concern that negotiations might ruin the surprise of the weekend is all for naught. I have no idea how things will play out. We talked about so many things!

Your smile is broad when you look down at me. I can tell that you are at least as excited as I am. The twinkle in your eyes would be enough, but the tent in your pants emphasizes it well. You utter a single word, "Stay." I recognize the path you are heading down from your word choice and my stomach flip flops. I quickly drop my eyes and flush deeply, shaking from nervousness and at least a little bit of dread.

You slip back into the house, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts. It feels like you are gone forever. Long enough for me to question making this fantasy a reality a half dozen times. I should stop this... but I can't. I already consented to playing without a safeword. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut? Why did I tell you this fantasy? Agree to these terms? A rather superior sounding voice in my head answers, "Because you want exactly this." I glare at my internal self and wrap my arms tightly around my body. I feel incredibly exposed as I kneel naked in my backyard.

I imagine you are examining the toy closet and making plans. I wonder if you are watching me through the window also. I am facing away from the house, so I cannot tell, and I am too nervous to move. When you told me to stay... did that mean I shouldn't turn around? I don't know and I'm afraid to risk it, so I wait. Patience is a virtue, but it isn't one of mine and this is its own kind of torture. I suspect you planned it that way.

The Weekend -- Part 4, Charmed

I hear the screen on the sliding glass door open and close again. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I wait for you to travel the few short steps from the door to where I wait in the back yard. I realize that I am holding my breath and it suddenly occurs to me that maybe waiting wasn't such a bad thing. I'm willing to wait a little longer. Really. Go back in the house! Please. Pretty please. With a cherry on top. This cherry. Let's leave it be. My mind screams, but my lips are silent.

Your hand slides into my hair, gripping firmly and tilting my head back so that I am forced to look at you. Goosebumps rise on my flesh and the breath I'm still holding is now caught in my chest. Your smile is both warm and treacherous, which boggles my already overwhelmed brain. You bend to brush your lips very gently against mine and then you say, "Breathe."

I slowly release my breath and shakily draw in another one. You wait patiently until my breathing settles back into a more normal pattern. Then you smile again and release my hair, reaching into your back pocket. You pull out a collar that I recognize from my toy closet. I am not surprised, though the sight almost brings me to tears as I am overpowered by my fear.

You buckle the collar around my neck. It is a simple collar that has been around for years, mostly gathering dust, while this fantasy hides from the light of day. Then you reach back into your pocket, pull out a lock, and efficiently lock the collar in place. A jolt of electricity or something very similar shoots down my spine. There's just something about the sound of a lock clicking into place. It's so... I don't know the word. But whatever it is, it very much is.

I nervously rub my hands up and down my thighs, trying to settle myself. You reach back into your pocket once again and then open your hand so that I can see what you have. A small charm rests in your palm. It is a simple charm with a single word etched into it, "Puppy." The tears that have been threatening finally spill over, slowly sliding down my cheeks. You quickly clasp the charm onto the collar and then kneel in front of me so that we are face to face.

You gently place your hands on both of my cheeks, thumbs brushing the damp tears away. You place your forehead against mine, wrap your arms around me, and pull me into your body. We are pressed together from our foreheads to our knees, your arms enveloping me. I feel vulnerable and exposed, one of my darker fantasies now gleaming in the bright light of day. I also feel warm and safe. Yes, you are toying with a space I don't let many people into, but I also know that when the weekend ends and the terror subsides, I will be grateful for giving you access to this part of me, for trusting you to take me down this path.

The Weekend -- Part 5, Loss of Limbs

You hold me against your body until the reality has found space to settle into my brain and the tension flows out of me. Your lips briefly brush my forehead, cheeks, and lips. There is tenderness and familiar intimacy in your touch. I am scared, but I am safe. Mostly.

You pull back and study my eyes. I know you are checking to make sure I am grounded. I am reassured that you are watching out for signs that I am slipping into a bad space and I answer your unspoken question with a smile and a brief nod. Satisfied, you separate your body from mine and stand up. I continue to kneel where I am, waiting to see what will happen next.

Your fingers briefly grip the charm at my throat—renewing my consciousness of it—before you step away. You return with the bag that you had brought back outside with you but had left out of my range of vision. I eye it speculatively, trying to imagine what horrors it might contain. I don't have long to wait.

The first thing you pull out is a pair of special mittens. I stare at them as my mind somersaults around the possibilities of how they will impact me. Fuck. My stomach joins in the somersaulting. You hold the first mitten out to me and I meekly lift my hand in stunned obedience so that you can slip it on. You quickly buckle it around my wrist and then hold the other one out to me.

A flash of rebellion flares again and I fist my free hand in my lap, trying to quickly think through an escape plan. Epic fail. I cannot concentrate long enough to find a way out. My hesitation results in another hard slap to my face, quickly dousing the flare. I yelp and raise my hand to you. The second mitten is buckled into place, effectively turn my hands into, well... paws. I try to swallow the rising panic, but it refuses to budge and expands to yet another level when these too are locked into place.

Your fingers lightly stroke my cheek, soothing the spot that stings from the slap. The quick changes from gentle to brutal and back again get to me every time. I am off balance, edgy, uncertain. This is part of the mental play that is necessary to really get under my skin and you do it so well.

You return to your bag and pull out some coils of rope. I forget my edginess momentarily and unconsciously lick my lips as I watch you work with the rope. Rope is so incredibly hot. I love all forms of bondage, but there's something special about rope. Within a few moments, you fashion a comfortably snug rope harness around my waist, building in a free loop that makes me internally scratch my head. What could that be for?

You ease me from my kneeling up position down onto my knees and mittened hands. You attach a rope to my right ankle, then pass the ends of the rope through the free loop of my waist harness, then back down to attach to my left ankle. You carefully bind off the rope and ask me to stretch out my right leg. All too soon I realize that I can stretch out my right leg, but only by bringing my left leg in closer to my crotch. The left leg is the same. There is not enough slack in the rope to allow me to stretch both legs out at the same time. You have effectively taken away my bi-pedal movements with a vision for long-term wear. I will be able to stretch out one leg at a time to ease muscle cramps, but I won't be able to stand up until the harness is removed.

Panic swirls with admiration for your devious brilliance. At some point, I will tell you how hot your mind is, but for now I turn my focus to remembering how to breathe as the implications of this deviousness sink in more fully. God help me.

The Weekend -- Part 6, Careful What You Wish For

All told, you have been here less than two hours, but my transformation is so complete that it feels like it must be much longer. The sun is still warm on my back though it is considerably lower in the sky than when you first arrived.

I hear the neighbors open their back door on the other side of the privacy fence. Based on the sounds drifting over, they have clearly chosen to grill tonight. And why not? It's a beautiful evening. Why not?! Because I'm naked and tied up over here, that's why! The different factions of my brain war with each other at this unexpected evolution of my predicament. I want to tell you that this is too close for comfort, to escape into the relative safety of the house. I look up at you, nervously biting my lip, trying to figure out what I might say to get you to move us inside. Your eyes are laughing, delighted with the extra element that played right into your hands. With a sinking feeling, I realize you are not going to let me off the hook that easily.

To my horror, you say aloud in a casual voice, "Well, pup... it's such a nice night. I think we'll eat outside. Stay. I'll be right back." I cringe and gingerly crawl to the other side of the tree. This is silly -- as if the tree affords any greater protection than the privacy fence already gives me -- but I do it anyway.

There's a logical piece of my brain that realizes you haven't said anything to suggest to my neighbors that you are speaking to anyone other than a dog. But the other part of my brain envisions horrible scenarios. They probably know I didn't have a dog -- what if they want to come over to see it? What if you forget and say something that gives us away? I certainly won't say anything! I'm too afraid to speak. I cower on the other side of the tree, shaking and uneasy.

I hear you come back out on the deck and put some stuff down. I continue to shake. I am immobilized by fear of discovery. "Here, pup! Come!" I don't like this anymore. I want out. Fuck. Then I hear your whistle. It is loud and piercing, followed immediately by "Come! Now." I am suddenly aware that the longer I wait, the louder you will call, and the more likely you are to draw the attention of the neighbors. This motivates me to move. I slowly crawl out from behind the tree and move toward the deck.

Your smile is wicked and cruel. Your voice is clear to anyone who cares to listen. "Good girl. That's a good girl! You already know to come when I call you. That will make you so much easier to train." I glower ineffectively and am rewarded by your silent laughter and dancing eyes. "Eat up, pup!"

I glance down at the deck and see that you have placed two bowls there, one with food and one with water. The queasiness in my stomach ratchets up a notch or two. The reality of this fantasy is coming back to bite me. The superior bitch in my head is laughing and taunting, "Be careful what you wish for." I hate her. I really do. I stare at you sullenly, hoping you will get the hint that I do not like this and take me inside.

Your reaction is lightning quick and steals the breath from my lungs. Your hand is in my hair, wrenching me into a kneeling up position, your breath hot against my ear when you whisper savagely, "You are mine. There is no safeword unless you are in danger of being harmed. Submission isn't always about having fun. Behave!"

The admonishment cuts deeply and tears roll down my cheeks again as I start to sob quietly. You kiss my cheek and then push me back onto my hands and knees. I lean into your legs and you reward me with gentle strokes to my hair and back. "Good girl," you whisper soothingly. "Good girl."