Liberated

Chapter One: What's Prologue is Past

Note: This story references events from Enslaved by the Pen that would otherwise be decontextualized if read independently and requires the reader to be familiar with the general chronology of events from that series. It is recommended that this be read following Enslaved by the Pen. Please note that the stories contained within both series are non-con fiction, and should be read at the reader's own discretion.

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This was the fourth time I had dined at the upper midtown bistro. She was brunching with one of her friends. Plum dress, attractively tight against her curves. She threw her head back. Her onyx locks bounced against her slight shoulders, and she laughed about a shared intimacy with her companion as she reached her small hands forward to gently grasp her friend's forearm in an affectionate, yet playful gesture.

I had been observing her for months now. Carefree, yet ever cautious, she exuded a confidence and assuredness of her place that came from experience and struggle, and a sense of maturity bred of desire for a betterment of circumstances than she had lived through. Despite the conditions of her upbringing, she espoused a naiveté and sense of compassion that could be to her detriment, always assuming the best of others, rather than perceiving the reality of the situation before her. It was a cockeyed optimism that seemed contradictory with the cautiousness she exhibited in other parts of her life.

Her friends were decidedly unaware of the desires that welled deep within her mind and caused her to erupt in unrestrained passion at her own hand night after night, often with my assistance, but undoubtedly with the phantom of my dominance looming over her intentions. Unbeknownst to her acquaintances and peers, she was Lolita Yearns, the nom de plume she adopted on the erotica site where I had first encountered her online persona. I had stumbled across her rich oeuvre, tales of delightfully lewd writing that demonstrated a commendable edge of darkness and wanton depravity.

That first night as I indulged through her compositions, her words engrossed me into a feverish state of lasciviousness that I only sated with the repeated exertions of my own curled hand upon hardened flesh. She was perpetually writing from the submissive's perspective, her creations representative of an appetite for the strong hand of a Dom who would administer the enemas, anal, bondage, humiliation play, edging, and ruined orgasms that her characters frequently endured in their tribulations.

She penned fantastical tales of captured slaves and the dominant men who apprehended them; women who by way of malfeasance, found themselves in compromising positions at work and agreed to unconditionally serve on their knees to their male bosses in exchange for the silence surrounding their misdeeds; daddy Doms and their little subs engaging in intimate, soft play that was at once nurturing, and charmingly indecent; women being figged and caned as they begged for more pain across the backs of their legs and buttocks; stories of lovers who explored their sexuality together with gentle caresses and affectionate words; women tied in Shibari and forced to climax repeatedly in bondage with the scorching trace of wax dripping onto their skin; submissives and the Masters who loved them teasing them to the brink of erotic longing through instruments of pain and pleasure until legs wobbled and thighs quivered; protagonists tortured with perpetual pleasure until they wept for release or clemency.

But the predominant thread that weaved through her work was the female protagonist's submission at the hands of a dominant figure. His power was omnipresent. Her surrender was inevitable.

I hadn't expected a response when I initially messaged her. She was gracious in her acceptance of my criticisms. I felt compelled to correct a dangerous inaccuracy she had portrayed in her story of caning, that was, by its nature, unsafe to the submissive's body. I had been astonished by her confession that she hadn't any experience in the lifestyle, and her writing was based on research rather than experiential reality. Her depictions of the colour of reddening flesh, and her representations of a submissive's mews of desire were so strikingly vivid that they suggested otherwise. The richness of how her mind envisioned the scenes without the pleasure of corporeal experience to inform her writing was sufficient to convince me that submission for her was a soulful endeavour, rather than a mere sexual dalliance. Observing her desires emerge organically from the pages of the prose she shared illustrated a fundamental yearning for serving for one she had not yet encountered.

We had established a symbiotic rapport through our continuous correspondence. She frequently consulted me for the realism of BDSM scenes, inquiring if the physiological and emotional responses the characters evinced in her stories were accurate representations, and whether the landscapes of debauchery she portrayed were sufficiently realistic. She queried about how a Dominant might stand, or how rigid a Dominant's cock might be if he was only tracing a finger up his submissive's body as opposed to slipping his digit into her wet pussy. How did rope against skin constrain and bind flesh in its markings? She questioned me about techniques and implements that she'd never heard about.

I suspected I served as her muse more than occasionally, providing her with both inspiration and input for the scenarios she longed to enact herself. Every story she penned oozed of a profound ache for a lifestyle she hadn't yet the courage to participate in.

Her stories were a calling, as yet unfulfilled.

Not even the current individual that she was dating knew of the depth of her desires. He was a milquetoast of a man who treated her with disdain at the already reserved intimacies she dared disclose to him. He remained decidedly unaware of the aspirations that echoed from her soul to slip to her knees in service of a Dominant. How she longed to be bound, to surrender to her own unrestrained sexuality, to be taken with a heavy hand, and compelled to beg for her debasement, and used so thoroughly that she wept in gratitude. Those fantasies she confessed to me by way of the stories she pored her desires into, and the dreams she shared with me during our communications.

I observed her on my surveillance feed that evening in question after she arrived home. Her countenance conveying defeat as she dropped the bag of food at her feet and kicked her shoes off, slumping against the door to brace the weariness of disillusionment that infiltrated her spirit. She later confided to me that her boyfriend had broken up with her after she asked him to be a more dominating force in the bedroom. He had maligned her character, labelling her a slut, before unceremoniously slamming the door in her face. She had retreated with her purse and leftovers in hand. I comforted her that night. She sought me out, logging into her computer immediately upon her return.

"I only asked him to tie me up and maybe we could explore other positions than missionary," she tearfully informed me. "What's so wrong with wanting to try novel things El? Surely missionary cannot be the pinnacle of pleasure. I perpetually felt like I was some receptable that he would piston into. Sex was so unremarkable with him. Perhaps it was his upbringing and guilt, but he insisted on showering after sex as well, as if I had contaminated him with my ideological filth," she sighed heavily. "He didn't even want a blowjob from me. Who turns down a blow job from a woman? Are my cock sucking skills that abysmal? Am I that bad a lover? What's wrong with me El?" She was inconsolable in her self-blame, amplifying her imagined inadequacies as if they were cause for the dissolution of her relationship.

"Absolutely nothing Lolita. You have desires that are incompatible with his. It was gauche of him to label you a slut for your exceptionally healthy sexual aspirations." I tried to soothe her, but the sting of the breakup was too oppressive on her mood that evening. Rejection and her sense of undesirability transformed her into a pariah in her own eyes at the cost of her burgeoning sexuality. How much had she suppressed of herself in service of his morality and sexual conservatism?

"If it would help you Lolita, I'll call upon my altruism and selflessly volunteer in service to your mouth so that I can objectively evaluate your cock sucking skills." I grinned though knew she couldn't see me.

"Wipe the grin off your face, you asshole," she correctly intuited. "How very magnanimous of you," she snorted.

That night, I encouraged her to cast away the undeserved shame that punctuated heavily through her words. There was no embarrassment I gently comforted her. As she softly sniffled, I wanted to cocoon her within my arms and assure her that there were men who could appreciate her carnal ambitions. Instead, I sat on the other side of the screen, helplessly trying in earnest to convince her of her desirability and persuade her that the inner fortitude and strength she exhibited ought never to be invalidated by the whims of men lesser than her.

My attention released from my memories then and refocused to my present endeavours as Lolita stood up to use the facilities at the bistro. I followed none too closely, accidentally jostling my arm past her in my effort to manufacture an atonable incident. Her eyes conveyed kindness as she stepped aside without concern, pre-empting our encounter by apologizing first, and entering the ladies room. No matter how earnest my efforts, I was unsuccessful at engineering an accidental meeting.

On my first attempt I had entered the graduate funding department at the university she worked at, attempting to establish a scholarship for computer science students. I knew that such tasks were within her purview. Her supervisor insisted on personally managing the project, and I only watched Lolita from afar, never encountering her within the office for the opportunity to meet. While her colleagues had introduced themselves, she never had. Though, I did catch her looking up occasionally to gaze in my direction. During the instances when I had resolved to make her acquaintance, she had never been available. Though, El had received multiple messages from her during this time, and I couldn't help but fathom that my online persona was sabotaging my real-life prospects of being in Lolita's life. Perhaps, her infatuation with El obfuscated her desire to connect with any others except him.

The second failed attempt occurred at the grocery store. With a basket full of groceries in hand, I was primed to ask her for assistance in selecting a cantaloupe. Before I could engage her in conversation, her boyfriend placed a possessive arm around her waist, withdrawing her from my presence.

A few weeks afterwards, I had purchased her a drink at the bar, only for the bartender to misidentify her benefactor. The man didn't dispel her misunderstanding, and he spent the evening dancing with her. I watched from afar seething as the tightness of her body moved within his arms, her hair swaying with a sumptuous fluidity, as her locks swept across her back. I observed the sly sparkle of her eye as she bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders to her friends who goaded her to reciprocate the man's advances. She seemed reluctant initially, and my heart swelled with jubilation as her hands gently rebuked his approaches when his grip on her waist trespassed beyond her point of comfort.

As earnest as my efforts were, I was unsuccessful at engineering an opportune time that appeared convincingly organic to meet Lolita. Every opportunity thus far had been thwarted by poor timing, and even worse luck. It seemed as if the Fates were conspiring to keep the threads of our destinies apart.

It wasn't that I lacked the confidence to approach her. By all objective standards, women considered me charmingly attractive. There were advantages to being 6'4", with blond hair and green eyes. By virtue of my height alone, I was an arresting presence. It was perhaps why her supervisor had insisted on monopolizing the scholarship project I established. It was off-putting how she hurled herself at me, availing herself of my supposed every desire. I shuddered as I recalled how she had winked at me, emphasizing that she was "available at any time".

I hadn't always been so attractive. My growth spurt graced my body late, and at age 18.5, I was the tallest in my class. My gangly frame and clumsy demeanour did little to thwart being bullied by those whose popularity was an uncomplicated endeavour. My inept attempts at socialization magnified my awkwardness as a young adult, which was further solidified by my refusal to retreat from the lure of the computer screen and the confines of my bedroom. I had not inherited my parents' gregariousness, much to their dismay.

I played no sports. I joined no clubs. I had few friends beyond the online world of my like-minded compatriots. My confidence was contingent on my intelligence and innate capability to code, rather than my inability to intermingle with my peers. It wasn't until a group of boys, whom I towered over, repeatedly assaulted me, that I realized my self-esteem should never be contingent on others, and I would never be their bullying victim again.

Subsequent to that afternoon when I found myself face-down choking in mud, I became a regular fixture at my school's gym, putting bulk on my body that became proportionate with my height. I grew into my looks, and the once bashful disposition that generated sneers of ridicule from my own gender, unexpectedly became indicative of a charming temperament for the opposite gender. While I never completely cast aside the gawky awkwardness that defined my young adulthood, I had cultivated a reserve of resilience sufficient to withstand the now diminishing barbs and bruises directed my way. Physical reciprocation against violence seemed an effective means of dissuasion. Though, occasionally the armour of my robust demeanour could be permeated with doubt.

Lolita was similar in that regard. We each possessed an outer resilience whose tenacity was vulnerable to our own introspection. She lacked comprehension of how sensual she was, perpetually being far too self-deprecating on herself and the desirability she exuded from every movement of her body, and every word she uttered. She was effortlessly sultry, and innately compassionate at once. I observed from afar how men would approach her under the guise of requesting assistance, whether it be asking directions, or the time, or the banalities of casual conversation. She was gracious in her engagement, but never assumed beyond the superficial. I vicariously commiserated with other failed suitors who approached her, only to be also rejected by her sheer adorable cluelessness.

"He tried to pay for dinner," she told me once. "I insisted we split the costs as we were friends. But then he demanded my affection and attempted to put his hand on my knee at the movies. I thought we were friends El. I was shocked by his shamelessness."

"So, what you're telling me Lolita is that you had zero inclination that this was a date despite it being dinner and a movie?"

"He didn't call it a date. He told me we should 'hang out' together. Hanging out does not constitute a date in any lexicon."

"At what point did you realize it was a date?" I chuckled at her and educated her on the naiveté of her assumptions.

"When he tried to kiss me," she groaned out. "He leaned into my space with his giant puckered fish lips. Ughh. His moves were decidedly amateur. I'm not expecting Casanova, El. I don't want a boy. I want a man, a man who can intuit what I want without subjecting me to an inquisition, like you. You know exactly what to say to me and what I yearn for. I don't need to tell you about how I want to be fucked or touched or handled." She sighed in frustration. "Too bad you weren't closer," she lamented.

"Oh?" I intoned with interest.

"I just meant in the abstract," she backtracked quickly. "We're only pen pals after all."

As my thoughts drifted back to the present, I gazed at her from across the restaurant. I imagined her naked, wearing my collar, her arms cuffed behind her, on her knees, her mouth opened waiting for my cock. The image drew me to firmness under the table, and I crossed my legs uncomfortably to contain the evidence of my excitement. But my cock twitched and pulsed with even more compulsion at my undeterred thoughts of her hot mouth swallowing me into its tightness, her lips stretched over the rod of flesh. I could envision the wonder dancing across her eyes as I unzipped my pants revealing how thick I was, even in its flaccid state, and how her small hand would barely be able to wrap itself around my girth as I grew under her touch.

I could visualize her pert nipples at attention as she gazed up at me, longing fuelling her obedience to my every yearning. My hands would entangle tightly around her long tresses pulling her forwards as I fucked her mouth, gently at first before ramming down her eager throat until she gagged. And she'd willingly fellate me with enthusiasm, running her tongue down the length of my shaft before circling around the head, and suckling me with vigour. She'd swallow my seed down her tight throat as her own fingers manipulated her clitoris, begging me with her eyes to be granted sexual absolution. I would beckon her with encouragement to touch the heat between her legs as she retained me in her mouth, and I'd watch as her body roiled through her orgasm, shuddering forward with each spasm of pleasure that sent her cresting to the edge.

That scenario was a mutual fantasy of ours that we had shared one night. She had described in detail how the vulnerability of being taken and used thoroughly as she was displayed and restrained on her knees provoked her to gushing wetness. At age 24, I urged her to seize the opportunities presented, before the life she wanted slipped past her clutching fingers. It was never too late I reasoned. Fantasies can always be brought to the light of fruition. Despite Lolita's disinclination to confront her own darkness and acknowledge the appeal of her submerged desires, I knew precisely what she yearned for. The same urgings wrenched heavily on my libido.

"How do I know you're not some guy in your parents' basement, unemployed and eating pizza, wanking off as you flip through some porn mag?" She queried me one evening. It was the first time we spoke on the telephone. She was sweet, docile, with an edge of sarcasm to her wit. I had confessed to her moments before that I enjoyed binding a woman and edging her to orgasm, and then building and guiding her towards the precipice repeatedly as I watched her squirm in pleasure. I suggested Lolita could be an apt participant in the scenario. She had attempted to deflect the conversation away from her obvious sense of discomfort.

"Rest assured, I'm gainfully employed, make a comfortable wage, have assets, and even own my own property. Plus, as I've told you, I'm 29. And while I may be wanking off as you teasingly label it, I'm certainly not doing so in my parents' basement. They wouldn't enjoy such a performance, nor would they tolerate that I tie women up for their enjoyment. They're surprisingly puritan in that regard."

She laughed then, a deep-throated chortle whose honeyed tones underlined the smoothness of her voice. "I just thought of how awkward you would look if you were interrupted mid-scene and had to explain why the lovely woman you introduced to your parents at dinner was currently tied up in bondage with her legs spread, her breasts on display, with a penis gag down her mouth, and her ass occupied with an enormous vibrating plug, as your arm is arched in a downwards striking motion with a flogger." She giggled uncontrollably then at the audacity of the image, and snorted out, mimicking my voice, "Hi mom, dad. You remember my girlfriend." I found myself laughing alongside her hysterical peals of merriment. Her innocence and levity were contagious.