You are collected from the sleeping quarters, still damp and sore from the ropes and led to the shower area. The nozzles emit a fine warm mist, and you apply a coconut and cinnamon scented wash as the guards effect a discreet exit and allow you the pleasure of preparing yourself. Your skin tingles where you wash, and by the time you step out and towel yourself, you are almost convinced that last night might have been a feverish, anxious pleasure dream. With your hair brushed through, and in clean clothes – this time cotton slacks and a t shirt, you are instructed to report to Room 6.
There are lights inset into the floor that pulse in rhythm and you follow those to a single metal door. A handprint reader is set where the handle should be, and a sequence of LED lights flash on and off when you place your palm against it. The door opens with a pneumatic hiss and you walk inside.
The floor has thick carpet, the colour of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar and you scrunch your toes into fists. The comfort is beguiling, but what draws your attention is the square metal frame set into the centre of the room. There are pulleys set at right angles, with Velcro cuffs attached by hooks. You hear a familiar voice behind you.
The guard who shaved you. He wears a black t shirt and trousers with polished black leather shoes. He checks a PDA in his hand.
‘It says here your safe word is curmudgeon. Is that right?’
He smiles as he says it. You see the corrugated muscles in his forearms, beneath the fine, dark hairs. He has a couple of day’s beard grown in and he rolls his shoulders as he appraises you.
You nod, your heart starting to speed up as he puts the PDA down on the table in the corner of the room.
‘We also use a traffic light system here. So, it’s green for keep going, amber for check in and red is slow down or stop.’
His voice is low, pleasant and professional. It’s the kind of voice that would make you sigh to hear on the phone, and a fluttering, gentle warmth stirs in your belly to hear it. He walks towards you and gazes into your eyes.
He smiles and brings his hand up to the hair on the back of your head and runs his fingers through it.
‘ I have you, and I can do any fucking thing I want to you. Do you understand?’
He shakes his head and pulls lightly on the hair at the back of your head. His grip is firm without being aggressive. Your eyes start to water, but your heart races with the speed and intensity of his grip.
‘I didn’t tell you to speak, did I, little girl?’
Those two words are a lit match tossed into petrol. You nod as much as his grip allows and he smiles with pleasure. You can smell his clean skin, the mint on his breath mingled with the coffee he drank.
‘Good. You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?’
His other hand circles your wrist. The implied strength of him brings out the brat in you, and you pull away slightly but he tightens his grip and pulls you close to him. Your chest crushes against his as he looks down on you.
‘Oh, do you think you can get away?’
You bite your bottom lip and squeeze your thighs together. The rough authority of his voice excites you and there’s a curious, playful light in his eyes that endears him to you. He tugs on your hair to control you again, a little harder this time.
‘Check in?’ he says.
You whisper it to him, playing the coquette for your mutual pleasure.
He keeps a grip on your hair and lets go of your wrist, slipping his hand inside the waistband of your cotton slacks and over the curve of your pussy. He shaved it yesterday, and he runs his fingers over there in small circles before he uses his ring and index fingers to part you with care then slides the tip of his index finger inside you. You are wet to the touch but he frowns, acting the part to the hilt.
‘I expect you to be wet for me.’
You nod hurriedly. He slides the finger into you a little further and exhales with displeasure.
‘Now, I am going to have to be a mean Daddy, aren’t I?’
You shake your head, breathing hard as he drags his finger in a small, deliberate circle. You raise up on your tiptoe.
‘You can feel I’m wet, Daddy. You don’t have to be mean to me.’
He pulls on your hair again, your eyes water and he slowly withdraws his finger from you. He tells you to turn around and walks you over to the frame. He presses himself against your backside, and you can feel the outline of his erection against your right buttock. His mouth is against your ear and he tells you exactly what you are to do.
‘What happens if I don’t?’
He tugs your hair again.
‘Did I tell you to speak?’
You shake your head as much as his control allows. Your breath is molten in your lungs, your heart is thumping, almost angry in the pace of its rhythms. You shut your eyes and tears trickle down your cheeks. Your thoughts are foxes chased by the hounds of his will. He swats your backside with the palm of his hand, and it stings through the material.
‘Spread your arms above your head.’
You do as you are told and he lets go of your hair to carefully affix each cuff to your wrists then your ankles. He says check in and you say green light without thinking. He presses a small button on the side of the frame and the wires retract. Your limbs are forced up, firm enough to hold you in place but not so much that it tests your tendons or shoulder joints.
He walks around you, eyes dark with power and excitement. You are unable to move and he retrieves a small razor from his pocket and cuts the clothing from your body in strips. He tosses each strip aside and stands back to view his work.
‘You know, I can do anything I want to you, don’t you, little girl?’
You nod and gasp.
He paces around you. Losing sight of him sends a jolt of mingled dread, anticipation and delight at the dread. His hand strokes down the length of your back, raising gooseflesh and making you shiver.
‘It’s such a shame that I have to discipline you, little girl.’
He stands in front of you and gazes into your eyes.
‘Daddy hates to be mean.’
You smile, giving in to the contradictory impulse to test him.
He scowls and strides behind you. You brace yourself and he cracks his hand against your left buttock. The air whistles and you cry out at the impact. The hurt forces your thoughts away, carried on a red tide of feeling that is clean and pure. The resulting endorphins surge in and your vision swims with blissful delight.
‘Do I have to do that again?’ he says.
He remains stood behind you, but his voice carries.
He smacks your other buttock and you cry out, your breathing fast.
‘I didn’t say speak, did I?’
You shake your head. He puts his hand between your thighs and pets you there. You shut your eyes and push against it.
‘That’s better.’ he says.
His voice is low and thick. He strokes between your lips, investigating and prodding with a confident, playful circling motion.
‘This is mine, little girl, you know that, right?’
Your eyelids are heavy as you take slow, deep breaths.
He smacks you with his palm there and you shudder in your restraints.
‘You answer Daddy, little girl.’
You nod, gasping and grinning as the hurt and pleasure travel through you, a perfect conjuring trick as your nerve endings riot in an orgy of blended synaesthetic sensations.
He starts to stroke you again, circling around your throbbing clitoris with his fingers without directly touching it. It is divine and maddening, how he controls your release, keeping it just out of reach.
‘Now, as this is mine, I get to decide something. Something that you need to ask for, little girl.’
You are drugged with the building, impending rush of orgasm. It pools in your stomach and thighs, a conspiracy of different physical sensations and pressures, made bold by their imminent arrival. You listen to him, intently but you cannot fight what is coming, no matter what he tells you. His fingers glide against your sodden, tender flesh and you can feel where your arousal has oiled the inside of your thighs.
‘You need my permission to come.’
The prohibition almost sends you over the edge. The relinquishment of responsibility, a simultaneous reduction and expansion of your primal, infinite self and all of it handed over to the man with the brown eyes and the knowing touch, who keeps you perpetually perched on the line between agony and ecstasy.
Speaking is like dragging someone from quicksand.
‘Please Daddy, what?’
‘Please Daddy, can I come?’
He starts to stroke closer to your clitoris, which pulses in time with your heartbeat, the blood hurtling through your veins as your nerve endings riot in an orgy of utter abandon. He does not rush, which is common in the heat of rut, where one has the responsibility of dominance and the other has the power of submission.
You cry out but he does not miss a stroke.
‘Please, oh please, let me come.’
You will yourself against it. Not because you fear the punishment, but because you want to cross that threshold. Nothing is your fault in that place, there are no nervous thieves looking to steal your fragile hopes from your day, only a complete set of feelings and emotions. There are no lists, no expectations only the force of will and your ability to ride it to the ending of a world and in the same instant, the birth of another.
Oh fuck you try.
You hear someone saying no and please over and over, their voice breathless and rapid.
You realise it is you.
It is the last rational thought you know before you explode with a shuddering, sharp burst of delight pitched at a note that makes every cell in your body vibrate, spasming and twisting against the stroking motions of his fingers. Time dilates and everything goes away for a second. You don’t black out or anything so histrionic, but there is a perfect pause of self and when you return, tears stream down your cheeks.
‘I’m sorry.’ you say.
He presses his palm against you, tells you to take deep breaths. His other arm comes around your waist and he pulls you hard against his chest. His mouth is against your ear and there is none of the playful control in his voice. Only a warm, calming concern for you.
‘You’re here and I’ve got you.’
You’re here and I’ve got you.’
He removes his palm from between your thighs and wraps his other arm around you. You sag forward against your restraints and they relinquish their grip on you. He makes reassuring cooing sounds and you hear the rip of the Velcro as he takes each cuff off. You let yourself be turned around and he puts his hand at the nape of your neck.
You rest your cheek against his chest. The tidal, slow rhythm of his breath and the steady pump of his heart work together to lull you from the depths of the crash that such a climb can prompt. Your arms come around him as you sob and he remains a solid reassuring column.
You shut your eyes and drift off with his fingers stroking your hair.
He tells you what a good girl you are.
That he’s got you.
If this is a game, then it is one that you have decided to believe is real. Like a pawn feeling existential dread when a castle crosses diagonally towards it on fields of pitch black and pure white.
You have been taken and you want to keep on being taken.