Your Lesson

"I'm in the lobby. Here are your instructions."

I can hear you gasp. Good. That's the desired effect. You take too long to answer, and I hold the pay phone away from my ear, glancing around as hotel guests come and go.

Finally, you say, "Tell me what to do. I will do anything for you."

I smile with relief. "I want you kneeling on a pillow facing away from the door. Have the room dark except for the bathroom light, and the bathroom door almost closed. Unlock your room door. And wait."

"Yes," you whisper.

I wait a long time, probably longer than necessary. I think about you up there, kneeling, wondering. I know the longer I wait, the more excited you will be. I like you excited.

I know you are probably worried that the maid will come in. In fact, she might. I chuckle to myself at the thought.

I have a gym bag full of stuff with me. Ace bandages, sesame oil, scissors, rubber gloves. A riding crop. I pick up a plastic cup full of ice from the machine on my way to the elevator.

It's a nice hotel downtown, everything clean and cheerful and full of brass light fixtures and polished oak. You are on the 15th floor. I look at myself in the mirrored panels on the inside of the elevator, and think: I seem so normal. No one would guess what I am about to do.

The room is indeed unlocked, and darkened. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, and then I see you. In your boxer shorts (damn, I forgot to specify naked!) kneeling, facing away from me, shaking. You have a blemish on your shoulder, a little worried pimple. I feel my heart melt a little more, because of the blemish. Your hair is thinning a little, and you have taken off your glasses and placed them carefully on the nightstand, next to your wallet and folded t-shirt. You are a careful, cautious man, taking a big chance for me.

I step up behind you, not speaking, and put my gym bag on the farther bed. You can hear the zipper, and you appear to be holding your breath as I rummage around looking for the blindfold. You know not to speak or look at me or unclasp your hands, which are behind your back, the long fingers intertwined, knuckles white. These were the first rules we discussed, things important to you as well as to me.

I slip the blindfold over your eyes, and you relax a little at my touch. I stroke your neck with the back of my fingers, and you sigh. I whisper into your ear: "Hello, baby."

You open your mouth as if to speak, but remember not to. I am impressed.

I kiss you firmly on the lips. I love this mouth, the smooth full lower lip, straight clean teeth, sweet corn-scented breath. I kiss you for a long time, watching from the corner of my eye as you inadvertently bring your arms forward to hold me, then remember and clasps them behind your back again.

I help you to your feet, enjoying the way your tall body unfolds gracefully from the floor until you are standing, blind and helpless, in front of me. The front of your boxer shorts are tented, and goosebumps cover your thighs.

I lead you by the hand until you can feel the edge of the bed, and tell you, "Face down." I try to sound matter-of-fact. You grope around until you find your way to a position on the bed, your belly resting on a little pile of pillows I have arranged there, your head slightly lower, your face resting on the clean, cool sheet. Your legs are outstretched and still shaking, your knees spread, your ass high and stretching toward me. I call this the "good boy" position.

"Will you require the bindings today?" I ask sternly. You nod. I tie your wrists together over your head with an elastic bandage and stretch your arms up, looping the elastic around a cut-out in the headboard of the bed, cinching it firmly. I kiss the sole of each of your feet, then wrap elastic bandage around each ankle and tie it to the nearest corner post of the footboard. The bed is accommodating. Some hotel beds do not so easily become instruments of bondage.

I plump the pillows under your hips, and stroke your ass through the boxer shorts. You sigh. "We'll have to get rid of these, won't we?" I ask, tugging at the leg of your shorts. You nod again.

I remove the scissors from the gym bag, long, sharp steel scissors, and begin stroking the point against the back of your thighs. You turns your head as if to see what I'm doing, but you are blindfolded and utterly helpless. You moan a little.

I begin to push the scissor points up under the legs of your shorts, probing very gently at each ass cheek. Then I grab a fistful of the fabric in one hand, pulling it taut, and start snipping from the leg to the waistband, dragging the scissor points across your flesh. You cry out a little, burying your face in the mattress so you can barely be heard. "Shhhh," I say. I cut away the side of the other leg.

"Now they're not shorts anymore, dear," I say. "They're just a big cloth diaper." I grab the back of the waistband and begin pulling it straight up, so you can feel the fabric sliding slowly across your hard cock and aching balls, up through the crack of your ass, and finally to freedom. I toss the ragged pants aside. You shiver.

I pat your ass reassuringly. "I just want to see what is mine," I say, leaning down, placing a soft kiss on each thigh, nudging your thighs apart with my hand. "Open up for me."

You have trouble with this part. It's scary, because you know what will happen, and you has to fight with yourself to relax and move your knees apart as far as they will go. I find my riding crop and begin to tap the inside of each thigh, to encourage you. I draw the tip of the crop up slowly through the crack of your ass, saying, "Yes, open, just like that."

"Are you ready to learn more?" I ask. You nod. "From this point on, you may say 'Yes, Ma'am' to me, but that is all. Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

I kiss your ear warmly, lingering a moment until your breathing normalizes. Then I stand, raise the crop up high, and bring it down fast against your bare ass. You jump and give a muffled cry. "No squirming, no screaming," I say, bringing the crop down three more times, each a little harder than the last. By the fifth stroke, you lies perfectly motionless, your body rigid. "Good boy," I say. "Very good."

I run my fingertips over the red welts I have created, then trace the same welts with the tip of my tongue. When your ass is shiny with my saliva trails, I begin the cropping again. Harder strokes than before. As hard as I can make them. I can hear you start to whimper, and I know you are crying softly into the mattress. "Can you take more?"

"Yes, Ma'am," you says. You have never, ever said no to me. I don't think you can say no to me. So I have to be careful not to actually injure you, because I know you will let me do anything and will never stop me. I have to remember when to stop.

I lay down the crop and pat your welts with my right hand while my left slips underneath you, so that your hardness can rest in my palm. You are incredibly hard now. I can feel your pulse in my hand. As my hand closes around you, you moan from deep in your throat. I squeeze your cock and pat your ass to reassure you.

"Just look at this beautiful cock," I say, stroking it tenderly with my fingertips. "Just look at how hard you get for me. I think you're almost ready. Do you feel ready?"

You nod. I don't think you actually do feel ready. But I am.

I slide my hand out from under you and step away, and begin running an ice cube over your body, enjoying the way you flinch as the cold touches the tender skin under your arm, and in the crease of your knee. I have placed the sesame oil on the ice, chilling it like wine. Now I uncap the bottle and drizzle the cold oil into the crack of your ass. You jump.

I pull on a rubber glove, right by your ear, so you can hear the snap. Then I begin to massage the oil along the length of the dark valley between your ass cheeks, watching you writhe a little. "Is this what you need, baby?" I ask. You nod frantically.

I push the tip of one finger against your anus. "Is this what you need?"

You begin to nod rhythmically, trying to move your hips up against my hand in the same timing. "Like this?" I say, pushing the fingertip more firmly, until I can feel your anus give way. You tremble, saying nothing, and I twist my fingertip back and forth, back and forth, gripped by the tight ring of the opening. "Is this what my baby needs? Answer me!"

"Yes ..." you sputter.

"Yes?"

"Yes!"

I quickly withdraw my hand and bring it down against your ass in a hard slap.

"Yes what?" I say, almost inaudibly.

"Yes, Ma'am!"

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'M sorry, because that's not one of the things you are allowed to say either. Not just 'yes.' Not 'I'm sorry.' Yes! ( I slap you hard) Ma'am! (I slap you harder) Do you understand?"

You are crying with frustration. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Say it again. Say it over and over again."

As you repeat your Yes, Ma'ams, I slap your ass with each syllable, coming down in the same spot again and again with my rubber-gloved hand, until I can see a purple handprint on your pale, white bottom. I spank you at least 20 times. "Have you got it now?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good boy." I get a new ice cube and rub it softly over the handprint, knowing that it both relieves the sting and brings a torment of its own to your bruised flesh.

I am resting my long middle finger against the ice cube as I massage your ass. When the ice has melted, I drizzle sesame oil over the finger and press it suddenly all the way into you.

You gasp and cry out a little, but I leave my finger buried there in you, letting you feel the icy cold deep inside. You are panting rapidly. "Move against my hand, baby," I say. "Fuck yourself on my finger."

You do this well when you are on hands and knees, but tied down like this, it's awkward. However, you try, arching your back and then hunkering down, trying to move my finger in and out. I watch you in amusement for a while before helping you by sliding my finger slowly, slowly all the way out and then plunging it in deep as you raise your ass. We develop a rhythm. You have begun to make a guttural sigh each time my finger slides out, and a sharp little "Ah!" every time it presses back in.

"You like this, don't you, babe?"

"Yes. Ma'am," comes your strangled reply.

"Let me see how much." I slide my other hand beneath you again, wrapping my fingers around your rock-hard member. "Mmmm, you like it a lot, don't you?"

"Yes Ma'am."

I slowly pull my finger all the way out and watch you lie perfectly motionless while I drip sesame oil over my index finger on the same hand.

"Now be good for me, and this will only hurt a little," I say. I press the tip of my middle finger into you, and you accept me willingly. You are stretched out and relaxed now. But when I begin to slide my index finger in next to it, you give a worried little cry.

"Shhh, relax baby," I say. "You're ready to take this now. You're learning so well."

I continue, taking my time with you, feeling you open up until I have both fingers buried deep inside you. You whimper a little. When you are quiet again, I begin to spread my fingers apart, relishing each moan as I spread, then relax, then spread them again, finally settling the tips on the little knob of your prostate. I massage it delicately with my fingertips.

"You have never taken two fingers before," I say. "I am very proud and impressed."

"Yes, Ma'am," you says. I can tell you are smiling. I work the fingers in and out. Then I bring the tip of a third finger to the opening, and press. You stop moving, alarmed. But I'm just teasing you. Two fingers are plenty for today. I like you to know that each lesson will bring a new challenge, a little more pain, a little more openness. I pump two fingers in and out slowly, steadily, and occasionally tease the opening with the third finger tip, just to keep you off guard.

I can see you sweating now, your hair soaked through, a fine glow on the skin of your bare back. I think you are biting the sheet. I think you are ready.

"You want to come, don't you?" I ask. You nod. You are close to tears from the pain and pleasure, and don't trust yourself to speak. I lean over to your ear. "Tell me baby. Do you want to come?"

You manage a "Yes, Ma'am." I leave my fingers resting inside you and begin to drum on your balls with my thumb. "Do you want to come just like this?"

You say nothing. I know you can't say no, so you say nothing. "Do you want me to fuck your ass with my hand until you come, baby?" I ask kindly. You are still silent.

I'm puzzled for a moment, sitting on the bed next to you, my hand buried deep inside you, feeling your hard cock throb. I have become so excited, watching your surrender, so touched by your complete trust. I can feel my own wetness against my thigh, my face flushed, from the excitement of keeping you on the edge for so long. I want to see you come, and I want to come.

Finally I withdraw my fingers very slowly, peel off the glove, and stretch out beside you.

"You may speak now," I tell you. "You have earned a fine orgasm. How do you want to come, baby?"

You turn your blindfolded, tear-stained face toward me. "Just release me and let me hold you," you say.

I snip through your bandage bindings on your wrists and ankles quickly with the scissors, and feel you wrap your arms first around my back, and then between my legs and around one thigh. The pressure of your arm between my legs is exquisite. You notice my excitement, and place your hand softly against me, tickling with your fingertips until I come, moaning and bucking in your strong arms, gazing up at your blindfolded face.

As I do, you let out a shout, and your orgasm begins to surge through you, without your cock touching anything at all. You collapse against my leg, spasms still rippling through the muscles in your legs, covering my thigh in hot, sticky cum.

I pull your blindfold up, and kiss your lips gently. "Oooh, very nice, baby," I say, smiling.

You look down at me with wonderment.

"The look on your face," I say, wiping your tears away gently with the back of my hand. You kiss me softly.

"I will do anything for you. Anything," you say.

"Shhhh," I say.

"Anything."

"Don't tempt me."

Your voice grows softer. "I will, though."

"We'll see," I say. My mind is already racing with the possibilities.