fiction, lust, sex, short fiction, Sir, Uncategorized

Sir 2.0 A Whispered Munch

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You are directed to a small room, four single beds, a footlocker at the bottom with a single pillow and sheet. The lighting overhead is recessed, making the shadows thicken and giving a softness to proceedings that lends everything a dream-like hue.

The other women here inspect you with a cautious glance. You give a casual, awkward wave and scurry towards the empty bed. You sit down and one of the women, the tall lady with the braid smiles at you.

‘All done?’

You nod. The dissonance between the examination and this environment has caught your tongue. Your skin still hums from the guard’s hand between your thighs, Sir’s voice, the harsh buzz of the unseen audience and their laughter. You shut your eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of it all.

Humiliation occupies that part of your brain where you are more repelled than attracted by it. Whether it is a deliberate choice on Sir’s part, is not for you to say and when you try to figure it out, the only reward is the grey, fuzzy start of a tension headache.

You do not hear the woman sit across from you.

‘Hey, I’m Inge. What’s your name?’

You give it. It occurs to you that this might not even be your name. Memory alteration has become a subtle science, evolved and fed by money and novelty. However, the video of you appeared to be convincing and so you decide to yourself, that it is as good a name as any.

Inge gestures behind her, to the other pair of women and gives their names. Pepper has auburn hair, squints like she needs prescription glasses and a slight overbite that makes her endearing as she waves at you. She stands with the rounded shoulders  and upper back of someone used to slouching around shorter people to make them feel better. You note the pink marks on her wrists, not fresh marks of bondage but old scars.

It is a misnomer that an interest in these practices is a sign of damage. You know from experience in meeting other people in the scene that they all show signs of rude, psychological health. A quote from the sex columnist Dan Savage comes to mind, that it’s all ‘cops and robbers with your pants off’.  Pepper sees where your eyes go and lowers her hands down by her side. She’s used to hiding them, but here it will probably feature as part of her programme.

Therese has long, dark hair that falls in damp, cherubic curls around high cheekbones and warm, brown eyes. She is short, full figured and gives a broad, challenging grin as she nods her head in greeting. Inge called them over.

‘Apparently, it all starts tomorrow.’ Pepper said.

Inge chuckled and you look at her with bemusement.

‘It all started the moment we went through processing. We signed up for something we wanted, and agreed to have it as a new experience for us.’

‘We all want something new.’ Therese said.

We all had experience of bad doms and daddies, in their own way as dangerous to our bodies and self-esteem as needy, weak men or boys in adult bodies. We knew, intellectually, that we had the power in such an exchange and that comfort was as essential as the willingness to put oneself and their needs up for display. My hands began to shake at the memory of the guard’s hands, the steady glide of the razor against my skin and how he had looked at me, with hunger and respect.

‘I got a shave already.’ you say, and the women laugh.

Pepper giggled.

‘I got a shampoo and a comb. I guess I’m into the hair being pulled there, or something.’

Inge smiled and crossed her legs.

‘Waxing for me. The guard put a dildo in whilst she did it. I came twice before she was done. ‘

Therese ran her tongue over her lips.

‘I’m almost too excited to sleep. I mean, the whole thing of the guards, the atmosphere, I’ve been tingling all over since I got here.’

Pepper had flushed and sat down next to Therese.

‘What do you think Sir looks like?’

Her voice is breathless, and the adolescent nature of this makes you smile.

‘It doesn’t matter. He’s an idea, I suppose.’

Therese bit her bottom lip and gazed upwards.

‘The accent, it’s arrogant. British, I think. Like how they play the villains in movies.’

A loud clicking sound announces a statement. All participants are to be in their bunks. The voice sounds curt and efficient. The four of you look at one another and then depart, moving to your beds and getting in under the covers. The lights go out, and you continue to talk, whispers scouting through the dark as you share little details, hopes and dreams that you seek to hide from the all-seeing eyes and ears of Sir. Sleep comes by degrees and you find relief in it’s absolute certainty.

You feel your hands being lifted and a length of rope looped around it, bent double at the wrist before your head is cradled at the back and another loop is slipped around your neck. Then it is adjusted so that it sits between your breasts, taut against your stomach and down your thighs. You are rolled onto your sides with a professional care and the rope tightens, biting into the skin of your stomach and pelvis.

‘Put your hands behind your head, lace your fingers.’

You think you recognise the voice, not Sir though.

You do as you’re told. Your heart thumps in your chest, hard and fast. A pair of hands starts to work with a second rope and then adjusts the first one, so the pressure is taken from your neck and passed on down between your thighs.

‘Good girl.’

There are two knots that you feel at your sternum and navel then you gasp as you feel gloved fingers pinch your nipples. You arch your back in response and the rope begins it’s work, harsh but delicious against your pulsing clit. You hear the breathing deepen and you try to work with the perpetual discomfort of the ropes, gritting your teeth and biting back the sobs of sensation that assail you.  You bite your lip in an effort not to cry out and a hand brushes your cheek.

‘Oh, you are a fighter, aren’t you?’

You cannot move your hands and you find yourself rolled onto your front. The rope between your legs insists itself and you push against it, shutting your eyes against the harsh pleasure of it. You feel cool hands on your exposed buttocks then the mouth close to your ear.

‘I’m going to put my fingers in your mouth now. You are not allowed to let go of them until I say, understand?’

You nod as much as the rope work allows. His index finger slides between your lips, the skin tastes faintly of good coffee and vanilla extract. You wrap your lips around it and shut your eyes, eager to show what a good girl you are.

The first blow makes your eyes water but the rush of endorphins is a beatific sensation. You take it, the sting ebbs into a deep warmth before the next blow comes and relieves you of that. You suck on the finger in your mouth, your eyes fill with tears. The harsh, painful, heated pleasure surges through you and sets a reaction that starts from the points of pain, meeting and expanding through you. You piston your hips against the rope, sucking on the finger and breathing through your nose as everything gets reduced down to the sensations you are experiencing.  Two more blows against your buttocks and you buck hard against the rope between your thighs, eyes rolling up behind the closed eyelids and shuddering as you come.

The finger is removed and you are untied with careful efficiency. You are gently laid on the mattress and the voice appears at your ear again.

‘You are a good girl. I look forward to doing this again with you.’

The hand strokes your hair as you sob with relief, the understanding of the crash that comes after such a tumult of sensations is a subtle thing that good doms and daddies understand. It is not to be feared, but seen as the gift that it is. A simplicity of feeling, a tunnel from the confusing disparities of the everyday into a state of cleaner, brighter consciousness.

The hand strokes your hair until you fall asleep.

You could tell yourself it was a dream but when you awake, the marks are still there.

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

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