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Odyssey of Submission #7
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
BEDTIME7.TXT A Writer's Choice Bedtime Story
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--ALL RIGHTS RESERVED--
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SWEET SLAVE
Life is full of temptations. Sometimes you grow by resisting
them. Sometimes you grow by embracing them. Linda was the second
kind.
Looking back, it's hard to remember just how Linda and I got
to where we are. It's even harder to explain to friends who are
close enough to us to read the signs but not close enough to be
part of what's happening. And it would be impossible to explain to
either of our parents or most of the people we work with, so from
them we simply hide it.
The facts are these: Linda is my slave. I am her master.
Those are startling words, even to me, even now, two years
after it became a fact. When I say them, sometimes a little voice
still demands of me, What do you mean, she's your slave? What
about the women's movement? What about the sensitive man? What's
going on here?
The answer's not simple. I could tell you it's about power, or
freedom from responsibility, or contact intensity. I could tell
you it's about primal urges to take and be taken. All of those
things are true.
But mostly it's about love.
#
We were friends first. That's important. Bondage and
submission isn't a game you play with strangers. If you don't
understand why, you're not ready to play at all.
I can tell you how Linda and I met. I run a little print shop
-- lithographs, silkscreens and the like, small runs, very high
quality. Not much work comes in off the street, but people who
need me seem to find me.
Roald needed me. He was an illustrator who was trying to even
out the ups and downs by getting his off-the-wall work on the
walls in the graphic art galleries around the city. Linda was his
housemate, sometime lover, and informal business partner. She went
to school part time and handled the running around so Roald could
concentrate on the art.
She explained all of that and more the first time she came in.
Not prattling or chattering. She was just open and at peace with
herself. I felt myself drawn to her, and it was hard to stay
professional. Dark hair, a happy shoulder-length tangle -- dark
eyes, her gaze warm and direct -- an easy gentle laugh. I knew
right then I wanted to know this woman better.
But it's bad manners to hit on your customers, and downright
callow to meddle in someone else's happy relationship. So I
contented myself with enjoying the rush of good feeling that came
when she appeared, enjoying the sight of her, the sound of her
voice. Yes, and enjoying a few fantasies when she was gone.
A month slid by, and she started to linger to talk when she
came in. In time it seemed as though the work we were doing for
Roald was only a secondary reason for her being there, and I
wondered where we were headed. Then one day she came into the shop
just before noon and asked me if I'd had lunch yet. There was a
deli down the street she'd been wanting to try, she said, but she
hated eating alone.
I only hesitated for a moment. "Me, too," I said, plucking my
jacket off its hook.
She took my arm as we went down the sidewalk, hugged me from
behind while I fought my way to the counter and ordered for us. I
felt wonderful, if a little confused. She cleared up the confusion
as we were finishing off our sandwiches.
"Do you know what it does to me when you look at me that way?"
she asked softly.
"What way?"
"That way. That look that says, `I want to take you and make
you mine.'"
"You're not supposed to see that look," I said, showing a mock
frown.
"Are you saying that you haven't seen mine? The look that says
I want you to?"
"You and Roald --"
"Roald and I have an open relationship," she said. "Should I
have told you that sooner?"
"Yes," I said.
"I like you, Christopher. And you have this way of looking at
me that makes me feel like the only woman in the room. Like
there's just you and me, and the rest of the world has gone away.
It makes me want very much for you to make love to me."
I looked into her eyes for a long moment, just that way. Then
I took her hand and led her out of the deli. I didn't let go until
we were standing in my bedroom and I needed that hand to unbutton
her blouse.
#
First times are always awkward. That's what my friend Bernard
tells me, and he's had a lot more first times than I have. Before
Linda, I'd have agreed. You don't know how gentle or firm to make
your touch, how to read your new lover's responses, how to tell
them what you like without making it sound like you're coaching a
wrestling team. Not to mention all those nasty little anxieties
rattling around in the back of your head.
But this was different. We undressed each other slowly,
pausing to kiss newly bared skin, to caress soft curves, to
explore the strange and wonderful new texture of each other's
bodies. When we were both naked, she threw her arms around me and
pulled herself close, her head resting on my shoulder, her breasts
flattened against my chest, my erect cock pressed between our
bellies.
"This is right," she whispered, "being here with you. This
feels so right."
We sat Indian-style on the bed and fondled each other, I
exploring her wetness, her my hardness. There were long kisses,
wet and hungry, her lips soft and pliant. In between the kisses I
could watch her face, a delicious intimacy, and enjoy the little
catch of breath as I pushed a finger inside her silky folds, the
dreamy look in her eyes as my fingertips traced circles on her
clit.
She gave back in full measure for what she was receiving --
stroking my cock with long cool fingers, her grip firm but never
rough -- cupping my balls in her hand, tracing the "seam" with a
fingernail -- surprising me by playing with my nipples and
delighting in my response. I returned the favor, rolling the
crinkly brown nub of her right nipple between my thumb and
forefinger, and she closed her eyes as though surrendering to a
new imperative.
On impulse, I turned the gentle pressure into a pinch, and she
moaned softly. A moment later there was a new rush of wetness
between her nether lips, and she slowly leaned forward until her
forehead rested on my shoulder. Her arms went around my shoulders,
and she clung tightly to me as I orchestrated her pleasure, two
fingers of one hand gliding over her swollen clit, two fingers of
the other alternately teasing and squeezing her nipples.
The rigidity in the arms that embraced me spread to her whole
body moments before she came, back arching, fingers clutching. She
made the most wonderful sounds, first hard exhalations that were
somewhere between gasps and moans, ending with a pure erotic cry
of pleasure. A moment later, she raised her head from my shoulder
and her lips seized mine in a grateful kiss.
She lay back and tried to pull me on top of her, but her scent
had been working on me for many long minutes, and I wanted a taste
of her first, musky and all female. My tongue found her clitoris
and teased it to erection, and I felt her fingers in my hair,
their gentle pressure a plea not to stop.
I didn't stop. The response of her body to my tongue's
probings was all the reinforcement I needed. As her excitement
mounted, I pushed the middle three fingers of my left hand deep
inside her well-lubricated pussy. When she came, crying out as
before, her muscles clamped down on my fingers in a powerful
rippling spasm.
That was when my own pleasure became the imperative. I climbed
atop her, bringing her a kiss flavored with her own juices.
She spread her legs wider to invite me inside, clutched at my
buttocks and whispered an urgent plea for me to fill her with my
cock.
I entered her with one smooth thrust and we began to move
together, finding the rhythm that was uniquely ours. There was a
ferocious intensity to her lovemaking such that I had never known
before, and it roused in me in turn a need to take her and possess
her. I drove my cock deep into her with powerful thrusts that were
almost assaults, riding her hard against the mattress. Eyes wide
with surprise and delight, she opened herself to me fully.
It was a closed circle of passion channeled round and round
between us, ever increasing, ever intensifying. Then her fingers
found my nipples, nails biting deep into the flesh, and my body
shook in an electric, convulsive shudder that left me wobbly-armed
and gasping. My cock still deep inside her cunt, I dropped to my
elbows, and we held each other in a tender, peaceful embrace.
Nothing needed to be said. There was a special connection
between us, almost frightening in its power, a recognition of the
self in the other, reality and reflection. We both knew it, just
as we both knew that we had just begun to explore what we could be
together.
#
Having -- or being -- a lovely, compliant, responsive slave is
a powerful fantasy. It touches deeply-rooted archetypes of
masculinity and femininity, suggests a quality of mutual obsession
not attainable in the complex, rule-ordered everyday world.
But it also evokes lurid crime-magazine headlines and invites
harsh assessments of your sanity and morality. You admit to having
the fantasy at considerable social risk. You admit to desiring the
reality at even greater risk.
So there is in my library a small collection of books that no
casual visitor sees -- classics like "The Image" and "The Story of
O," newcomers like "9 1/2 Weeks" and "Exit to Eden." I don't know
when Linda saw them. She insists to this day that she never did,
that her understanding of what I wanted -- what we both wanted --
came from some deeper reading of our word games and the energy we
generated together in our lovemaking.
The night it began, we had eaten a dinner we had cooked
together, enjoyed a glass of California wine and our favorite
Thursday evening comedies while cuddled together on the couch. As
it always seemed to, our cuddling progressed to familiar fully-
clothed teasing and touching.
By wordless consensus, we retired to the bedroom. She guided
me to a spot in front of the bureau, then stepped back and began
to disrobe. When I started to unbutton my shirt, she reached out
and stopped me.
"I want to be the only one naked," she said.
There was an erotic fire in her eyes which promised much, and
I let my hand fall back to my side.
There are many ways in which a woman can shed her clothes.
Linda showed me a new one. Not coy, not teasing, not flaunting her
curves and treasures. She made herself naked with the
deliberateness of a ritual, as though it were my right and
privilege to see her so, her loving duty to display herself.
Then she came and knelt before me as she unzippered my jeans
and gently fished my erect cock out through the opening. Her lips
parted and her tongue flicked across the swollen crown of my
manhood, then she cradled my cock in both hands and plunged it
deep into her warm, wet mouth.
A minute or so of this was enough to make my knees weak and me
wonder if I could coax her to the bed. Then, with a last lingering
caress, she drew back and sat on her heels with her knees spread
wide.
"Will you tie my arms behind me?" she whispered, looking up at
me hopefully.
I could not answer. I was struck dumb with desire.
"There's rope in my bag, on top," she added.
I looked for permission in her eyes, found it, and went to
where the bag sat. She stayed where she was, on her knees in the
middle of the floor. When I knelt behind her, she crossed her
wrists behind her back for me.
"If it pleases you, there's another piece for my elbows," she
whispered as I tied the first knot.
It pleased me. Binding her elbows thrust her breasts out and
up in a most flattering way. I stood and walked around her
admiringly, then moved close so she could once again take my cock
in her mouth.
Her mouth was hungry, her lips and tongue silken on my
hardness. I stroked her hair, cradled her face in my hands. She
was eager to draw an orgasm from me. I did not think I could come
from her oral attentions alone, could not remember even having
done so without the knowing touch of her hands on me. But I rode
the exquisite pleasure she could give and the special thrill of
seeing her that way until I forgot about "couldn't."
My eyes were closed, my head thrown back, my whole body
tensing for release, when she paused just long enough to whisper,
"Can you see us in the mirror?"
I glanced sideways at the bureau. I don't know that I'll ever
see anything more beautiful than what I saw in reflected there at
that moment: Linda on her knees before me, naked save for the
white ropes that held her arms severely behind her, her mouth full
of my cock and her eyes looking up at me as though to say I give
you this moment as a gift, because your pleasure is my pleasure,
because I love you.
It was the picture that she wanted me to see, had orchestrated
free and uncoerced. The sight pushed me over the top in an
explosive rush that left my whole body trembling. I dropped to my
knees and shared a salty kiss with her, then quickly unbound her
arms so that I could feel them around me.
#
Six weeks later, after much talk, a private shopping trip, and
some further explorations, Linda formally became my slave. It was
all symbolic, of course, yet very real. Symbols are real, after
all. They speak for things that can be expressed no other way.
It was sexual theater, very simple, yet very powerful. The
room was lit only by candles. She came to me naked, unadorned by
jewelry, and knelt before my chair. I placed a black leather
collar on her neck and secured it with a silver padlock. She
looked up at me and her eyes glowed. Somehow, the collar changed
her.
"I have something I want to give you," she said. "May I go get
it?"
I had her bring me a glass of wine first, watching her move
and enjoying her beauty. Then she left the room for a moment, and
returned carrying something before her. Until she was very close I
could not see what it was.
It was a short-thonged many-stranded whip. She offered it up
to me on her open palms. The black leather strands were soft and
supple, the wooden handle shaped like a cock. It was almost a work
of art.
"You know I'll use it on you," I said.
"Yes," she answered.
I reached down and explored the cleft between her legs. It was
wet and fragrant with her sweet nectar. "Get on the bed," I said.
It took only a few minutes to make her ready. I bound her face
down and bottom high over the low round rail of the footboard,
legs spread wide and tied to the legs of the bed. Then I stepped
back to enjoy the sight, as I knew she wanted me to. Her bound
hands were between her legs, her fingers already working against
her swollen clit. Her cheek was pressed against the bedspread, the
bright red cloth of her gag deep in her mouth. Her eyes were
closed, and yet communicated her blissful state.
I raised the whip and brought it down on her buttocks. She
jumped and gave a little cry that was muffled by the gag, but her
fingers never slowed. I varied the time between strokes, varied
the target -- left cheek, right, upper thighs, full across the ass
-- never letting her know when to expect the next fall of the
whip, until I marked the familiar signs of her approaching orgasm.
Then I began to lash her ass briskly and rhythmically,
alternating between left and right cheeks, using the cushion of
her self-pleasure to push her to more intense feelings. When she
came, the moans and cries could not be contained by the gag, and
her convulsive movements stressed the knots I had tied. I moved to
the side of the bed and removed her gag. She raised her head from
the bedcovers for a kiss. I have never kissed softer, more pliant
lips.
I freed her and made long, slow love with her there on the bed
where I had whipped her.
#
We have many more bondage toys now, have become fond of some
and found others wanting. We have explored different shadings of
the dominant/submissive dynamic, tested our joint and separate
fantasies, even reversed roles on occasion.
Every variation is a celebration of our diversity and unity,
for the one essential is the feeling between us. She gives to me
her trust, a precious gift never to be abused. The trust comes
from the love that we have, a love that is fully mutual, never
one-sided.
For all the liberties she allows me, my greatest pleasure is
to pleasure her. When Linda comes, moaning and grasping and
arching, I am in awe. There is nothing more compelling, nothing
more gratifying than to know that it is by my touch that she
achieves such rapture.
After an orgasm, she floats for several minutes on an
exquisite high, and I love to push her higher. Bound, she has had
more than a dozen orgasms in a span of a half-hour, each more
shattering and draining than the last, until the sheets are damp
with perspiration and her body limp with exhaustion.
Linda's magic is that she gives me, willingly, what I could
not and would not dare demand. I give her in return the means to
surrender to her body's imperatives and fully experience the world
of sensation.
It is the happiest of contracts, with both parties enriched.
There aren't many games with two winners. I consider myself
blessed to have found one with her.
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A version of this story was published by VARIATIONS in June, 1989 as NAKED OFFERING by Daniel Hart. is the original unedited
text, as the author meant it to be read.
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If you enjoyed this story and would like to help inspire the
author in his creative endeavors or his personal life, you're
welcome to send something erotic--a favorite photo, a hot letter
or story, an explicit GIF or two--to:
Mike Hudson
P.O. Box 22066
Lansing, MI 48909-2066
My tastes are diverse--don't be afraid to be as wild as your own
fantasies (or your own experiences) allow. And please let me know
where you found this file...I'm curious to see how far these
stories will wander through the BBS world.
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The Writer's Choice Bedtime Story Series:
BEDTIME1 -- Odyssey of Submission (B&D)
BEDTIME2 -- Special Friends (lesbian)
BEDTIME3 -- A Memory of Three (two women/one man)
BEDTIME4 -- A Wife Buys A Mistress (female domination)
BEDTIME5 -- The Gift of Pleasure (open relationship)
BEDTIME6 -- The Mistress's Secret (female domination)
BEDTIME7 -- Sweet Slave (B&D)
BEDTIME8 -- Turnabout (bisexual/dildo play)
====================Posting Date: July 1, 1992====================
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