"Good Girl, Thank You"

“You’re early. I haven’t showered.”

“I’d rather be early than late. I can wait in the car if you like.” She is a smart ass, but she is nervous.

“No, no. I just need to decide what to do with you.” He smiles.

He lets her in and gives her a hug; a comforting, quieting, full-body hug. She is instantly at ease, she feels safe.

He leads her into the kitchen and offers her something to drink. Accepting a glass of water, they chat a moment, and he instructs her to leave her purse and grab her other bag. He leads her to his play room.

She’s blown away and some of the anxious feeling she carried all day and mulled on her drive over - that nervousness quelled by his earlier embrace - came back to flutter her heart, if only a little. His collection was impressive… daunting even. A small shop’s worth of paddles and floggers, whips and canes, leather hoods, steel handcuffs, straps, gags… she may have gasped a little. Was that a… what the hell do you do with that?

She asks herself if she is truly prepared for this.

A spanking bench, beautifully made, with padded leg and body supports, is the first furniture she notices. Letting her eyes wander, she sees a massage table and a magnificent, tall chair, throne-like in appearance. There is also a dresser, a piece of “normal” furniture with towels, lotions and creams, lube, gloves, and more at the ready.

As she is looking around, processing her surroundings, he says, “I know you like handcuffs.” He says this as he leans down and wraps a leather cuff around her ankle. “Pretty shoes,” he says, complimenting her patent leather heels. He rubs her leg then adds a cuff to the other ankle and tells her to sit on the floor.

“I hope I have the keys for these,” he only seems to be half-joking as he goes to place her wrists in handcuffs. She pulls her arms back.

“You’d better have keys for those,” she says. Was that a nervous shake in her voice?

“Look at you,” he quips, “already trying to tell me what to do.” The best she can muster at that point is an unsure laugh. “I have bolt cutters and a welder if I need them,” he says, only half-kidding, she is sure, as he wraps the steel around her skin.

He attaches one ring on one of the pairs of the cuffs to both the ankle bindings, keeping her feet close together, then uses the second ring to attach her ankles to the cuffs at her wrists.

And he leaves her there as he departs the room to take a shower.

She sits there, looking around. This is his domain, his space. She remembers bringing her phone up in her bag and wonders if she can get to it. It’s on the floor, not far from her. She scoots – the best she can muster – closer to it, and reaches out. Straining, she grabs a handle and tilts the bag. Her phone becomes visible. She stretches, talking to herself, talking herself through it, and finds that her fingers are able to reach it.

She takes a few pictures of her bindings and shoes. She admires the imagery of the shiny handcuffs with the matte black leather of the ankle cuffs and her mirrored patent heels. Quickly – she hopes discreetly – she puts the phone back and moves back to her original sitting position.

She hears the shower turn off.

Soon, he returns. Music is playing and she can’t recall when it began… but she hears it now.

He helps her stand and embraces her from behind. Holding her a moment, his hands move over her, gently but firmly, connecting. He slowly backs off, his hands at her arms. “You don’t need this,” he says, removing her jacket and hanging it up.

He comes back to her, grabs her bag, and holds it open to her, an expectant look on his face. It takes her a moment to realize he wants to make sure she listened to his instructions. She reaches in and pulls out a butt plug, a ball gag, and headphones. He seems happy, and vocalizes his appreciation for her toys.

“Now, on the bench.”

He moves her forward to the spanking bench, has her kneel on it, her body relaxed flat against the top-most cushion, her legs apart and supported by the lower platforms. He uses leather straps on her legs and torso to keep her immobile, though he leaves her arms free.

He leans against her again, his cock against her ass; she can feel him under his jeans. He leans forward, covering her, his mouth at her ear. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” she says quietly, “thank you.”

He rubs his hands down her sides, presses his forehead against the back of her neck. “I will probably be fucking your ass at some point.” She shivers. He can’t see it, but she smiles.

He runs his hands over her back and legs, moving her skirt up over her lower back so he can run his hands over her ass.

“Pretty panties,” he admires, his hand on her skin. “Thank you,” he says. Again, he doesn’t see her smile.

Enjoying the touch, the sensation, she sighs.

And then he slaps her, bare-handed, hard, on her ass.

He spanks her, on different areas of her ass, with varying pressure, for about a minute.

And then he hits her.

Hard.

She gasps; she says, “Thank you.”

He spanks her. He leans his body weight across her and continues to spank her. She likes the feeling of his weight, his hands on her skin, up and down the back of her legs and her ass.

He removes and uses her own shoe to spank her. He uses the sole of another shoe, a heavy, patterned sole that makes her eyes tear. She feels a paddle, she thinks, and something with more sting. It is already starting to meld into feeling more than anything; she cannot see what he is doing or with what… but she can feel it.

She can react. She can cry out.

He leans over her again, slapping her ass over and over, hitting the same spots, and she can feel her skin warming, she can feel the pain level increasing, and she wants to start crying when some of the pain hits her as he hits her.

She says, “Thank you.”

He moves away for a moment and she can hear him putting on latex gloves.

He comes back to her, moves around where she can see him, and shows to her the butt plug she brought with her. One hand is rubbing her ass, slowly removing her panties, the other holds up the toy as he asks her, “How clean is this?”

“Very.”

“Very clean? So if I was to shove this in your mouth?”

“It is very clean,” she says.

He shoves the toy in her mouth, all the way to the back of her throat, and brings his other hand up to hold her head. He slowly, then more quickly, fucks her mouth with it, gagging her, pushing it in deeper. She takes it, she wants it; her eyes tear up but she doesn’t call out.

“Good girl,” he says, approvingly.

He removes it from her mouth and prepares it with lube. Slowly but steadily, he presses it into her ass. She tempers her breathing; she always has to remember to breathe. As he slides it in all the way, he pats her back.

“Good girl.”

In truth, she wants to scream. It’s a large plug. She’s in some pain already. Now this?

But she had hurt worse, she had been broken before and broken herself to a degree, she knew she could do this.

Her ass takes more abuse now, plugged and beaten, whipped and slapped. He makes her cry out many times, but she continues to thank him. She is unable to discern which of his favorite toys he is using on her, but she is aware that it is becoming more and more intense, more painful, and more…

She wants more.

He begins hitting her hard, with what she isn’t sure, and he keeps hitting the same spot. He isn’t moving and it’s becoming more and more painful. She breathes, she moans, she thinks herself through it.

He is relentless, he keeps going. Harder, more painful. The intensity is growing, that same spot. The same damn spot. She tries to breathe through it, she clenches her teeth...

“Yellow!” she cries out.

He stops for a moment and asks if she is OK. They’ve negotiated, but he asks her for her definition of Yellow.

“Slow down,” she says, her voice quiet. “Don’t stop, but slow down.”

She thinks he changes toys, she isn’t sure. But he hits her again. Not quite as hard, not quite as fast, but he does keep hitting her. He stops after a minute or two and she catches her breath. Her skin feels as if it is on fire. As he begins to rub her skin, she feels herself falling a little. Not physically, of course, the bench isn’t going to allow that to happen. But she can still feel it. Relish it.

He removes the leather straps and helps her to stand. She is a little wobbly, but she stands for him. She is told to remove her skirt and she obliges.

He guides her to a wall and puts her hands on it. “Stand here,” he instructs as he is walking away. She hears him moving various toys around, moving furniture around. She knows he is making decisions. He walks back to her and tells her to close her eyes. As she does, she feels him pull a soft hood over her head. She thinks it is cotton, and she feels it much like a ski mask would feel. “Is that comfortable?” he asks. She nods. He hands her the earphones she brought with her and tells her to put them in. She obliges.

And then he pulls over her head a leather hood, using his hands to move it around, squeezing around her face and head, making sure it is to his liking. He makes sure it is lined up properly, that everything is sitting the way he wants it to sit.

And he zipped it up. In a span of ten seconds she wondered if this was safe, if she could breathe, if she would fall.

If she would fail.

She worried about failing him.

He guided her, now blind, backwards. Stepping slowly, they crossed the room like this. He helps her hands find the arms of the chair and tells her to sit. She does, carefully, using the arms of the chair for balance. She is worried for her tender ass, still plugged, still very sensitive. And when she sits she realizes very little of her ass will be touched; much of the “seat” isn’t there, and she is exposed as she sits.

She feels him bind her legs, still in the leather cuffs, to the chair. He binds her waist to the chair. She hears him behind her, feels movement not of the chair but… in the chair? He pulls her head back, wraps a collar around her neck, and binds her to something in the chair. He tightens something and her neck is slightly stretched, her head held tight against the back of the chair. She is locked in.

All of a sudden, a part of her felt as if she was dying. And she began – internally – to question this, question her surroundings. She began to question her strength.

And just a little, she realized… she began to panic.

Panic wasn't the word, was it? Was it really panic or was it anxiety? Nerves? Fear?

No, she was sure of it. It was panic.

In truth, she knew she was safe. She had set up safety calls, she was not here without someone knowing where and with whom.

So why was she panicking?

She remembered the first time she attempted any degree of sensory deprivation. She was blindfolded, standing, hands bound to a chain with handcuffs, naked, and prepared to push her boundaries. She was confident then, too, even cocky (a recurring theme, she was beginning to realize). But she had to call out to end it. It was too much, too vulnerable, too much out of her control. Tonight, however, she let her mind travel back to that, through that, over that... and found herself able to breathe just fine. She was comfortable, she didn't feel out of control but instead she felt... comforted. She felt her body relax, unaware until that moment that she was holding herself so tense, so tight.

He was attentive, seeing to her comfort, letting her know she was important in her role, reminding her of her value. She was here of her own accord after all, and she was giving this to him just as much as he would be giving to her. He was very open about keeping her aware of her safety. He did this, of course, so that there would be a proper connection, there would be a respect and a comfort level that allow him to then inflict great amounts of pain, abuse, so he could dominate her. This was going beyond spankings and floggings, beyond bedroom bondage. This was as vulnerable as she had ever been until that moment... and he knew this.

She was breathing - she needs reminders often to breathe - and anticipating. Maybe even - if just a little - smiling.

She felt him moving about. She could feel him adjusting the chair, adjusting her. He had left her blouse on and so moved her clothing to expose her breasts.

Music was playing in her ears, the headphones held tight by the hoods. A playlist of her preferences. She smiled again.

And then she felt him under the chair... wait, under the chair?

In truth, she wasn't sure what she was sensing. Her eyes and ears covered or otherwise engaged, her body bound. Senses usually work together and she had none of them: she couldn't see or hear, she could smell only the leather and taste only her own tongue. Her arms were free but stationary on the arms of the chair, she could feel the shined wood... and that was it.

Emotion took over, pain sensations melded together. She was his toy, his bottom, his sub. She was his canvas and his target. She was.

Her ass was being abused, she could feel it. More than just her plug? She wasn't sure. Her ass was being fucked with inanimate objects. She was pinched and slapped. She felt like she was losing her plug and then felt it shoved back in. It was rough, painful, but admittedly not unpleasant. It was, however, disconcerting.

She wasn't sure where he was... while it seemed he was doing all of this to her already-sensitive ass, she could feel clothespins on her freshly-shaved pussy and her breasts. Her arms. Where was he? How could he do all of this at once?

He was slapping her pussy, and she wasn't sure but... was he fucking her with a dildo, too?

Her head was spinning. He seemed to be everywhere, all at once; motions and time and feeling were melding. Her breasts were being slapped and pinched and grabbed. She was being fucked by toys, but what? And how did he fit under the chair to do all that? Her legs felt as if they were being whipped, slapped and beaten. Her face was grabbed and squeezed, the hood pushing in around her.

And the music simply played along.

She felt as if she was losing her butt plug - if it was still there. She just remembers the sensation, the sense of loss and disappointment. She vocalizes her remorse but doesn't get a response.

And then it becomes quiet for a moment. Or maybe a minute. Five? She doesn't know what kind of time is passing and her sense of panic - no matter how small - comes back. Blinded, partially deaf but for the headphones in her ears, control of only her arms but bound in such a way that she could not reach any of her bindings. Would he leave her alone? Would he sit and watch while she squirmed? She begins to wonder how long he might leave her there, she wonders if he is laughing at her as her body language gives away her vulnerability and mental discomfort.

And then she feels his hand, warm on her throat. He holds it there, makes a connection, and then moves away again.

She feels movement against the chair again and he leans in close enough that she can feel the heat of his body close to hers. She feels (and thinks she hears) something attached to the chair in front of her, between her legs. He is maneuvering something and forcing it against her. It feels cool, like hard plastic, but given that she has been unable to discern most of what she's been through, she can't be confident.

He turns on what she immediately recognizes as a Hitachi Magic Wand. He adjusts it while it is running, pushing it hard against her clit and holding it there, locking it into place.

She can't move away, she can barely squirm.. and he slaps her breasts when she does. She hears him over the music, telling her she didn't have permission for that. Did he say that or was it in her head? She was not allowed to move against it or enjoy it, that message she got.

She feels as if she is being whipped again, paddled, slapped. More than ever she feels overwhelmed, overloaded. She cannot tell what is being done to her, but she can feel everything. She is vibrating, tensing, squirming; she is being stung, slapped, pinched and pushed. Her head is swimming and she feels as if she felt on the spanking bench earlier... as if she was falling.

She feels the clothespins being removed as the Hitachi starts to heat up. The blood rushes to the small points on her breasts and arms and chest and pussy where he is pulling them off. More than the pain of the initial placement or from wearing of them, the nerve endings are flooded, receptive to the slightest pain, and he knows this. He slaps her where she was wearing them, pinches her, and simultaneously pushes the Hitachi against her, harder. She can't help but enjoy it now, she unconsciously moves against it.

Building up, all of the physical and mental stimulation becomes manifested in a pent-up need for release. She is aware now just how badly she needs to let go, feel it, and experience the kind of pleasure she knows that this fashion of torture is giving to her. She whimpers, quietly at first... she doesn't want to cross a line. She can't keep it in, however, and breathes out, Oh my God... The tingling, the small waves of pleasure she gets as an orgasm builds; she fights it off, or tries, but it's beyond her control now.

She can't stop it.

He tells her she can come.

She does. Hard. She cries out, pleasure mixed with pain, and as she enjoys her climax she also realizes that it isn't stopping. She is vocal, even loud. It rolls with her, shakes her body. The Hitachi still hard against her, she is forced to feel it, it overtakes her and she comes again... if she ever really stopped. It becomes overwhelming and goes beyond release. She wants to enjoy it, relax from it, appreciate it... but it doesn't stop.

She can't stop.

Pleasure turns to pain and she whimpers again, this time from discomfort. She wants another orgasm but can't stand the thought of feeling it again. It is being forced now, no longer something she wants but something she must endure. How could something so amazing turn so uncomfortable so fast? She is confused, bombarded with mental and physical sensation she can't quite describe and cannot escape.

It became too much, she couldn't process it and she was sure the Hitachi was causing her burning pain. She called out, "Hot!" He immediately was at her side, questioning her. She thinks she articulated that it was hot, burning. He turns it off.

He loosens the bar holding her head and neck up, then removes the collar. He removes the waist and leg bindings and lets her sit there for a moment.

She feels weak, a little lost, and out of touch. She didn't realize how comforting or supportive her bindings had been until she was out of them and she immediately wondered if she did the wrong thing by crying out.

Worse, she wondered if he was done with her.

She wondered if she failed him.

And she began, very softly, to cry.

She was disappointed. As she sat there, waiting for him to tell her she was done, she felt her body slump a little. Both from the release of the bindings and from the sadness she felt, her emotional let down was reflected in this physical manifestation.

He reached out to her, hands on her shoulders, and helped her up from the chair. He hands her what she now recognizes as his iPod and tells her to hold on to it. He helps her walk, still blinded by the hood, and stood her next to the massage table. He tells her to lay down and helps her up on to the table. As she climbs onto the table she feels the headphones pull out of the iPod; the music stops and she tells him so. He says he will fix it, and he reaches over and reattaches the cord. She lays on her back, holding the iPod, waiting.

He straps her down at the waist, firm but not uncomfortably so. He then spreads her legs - or rather spreads the two leg supports of the table - and straps each leg to the separate pieces.

He removes the iPod from her hands and sets it next to her. He puts the Hitachi in her hand and turns it on, guiding her hand between her legs and holding it there. She is so sensitive still, she tries to maneuver it in a way that it will feel good; he has given her the tool, but he has not said she couldn't enjoy it. Her body moves a little and he does comment on it. She keeps her body from moving too much, but she continues to hold the massager carefully so she can avoid overload. It is still warm, she can feel it, but it is not yet too hot, too much.

He begins slapping her breasts, grabbing them, squeezing them. He is inflicting pain while she is looking for pleasure. She thanks him, quietly, but repeatedly. He pinches her nipples hard until she cries out. She does not call for an end, but she is in pain and she cannot be quiet. He repeats this, harder, and again. He is hitting her legs and body arms with... a crop? A thin paddle? Sometimes his hands. She wonders if she feels plastic, metal, or leather. All of them? Is he also whipping her? She is going into overload again. She cannot tell what or where she is feeling certain pain, but it is there and it is intense.

He grabs her breast hard and pushes her chest down. He holds his other hand over her face, over the hood.

He covers her mouth and moves his hand from her breast to hold her throat, briefly, but long enough to make her gasp.

She does not stop touching herself. She was given this task, even without words, and she will comply. She wants to come again. He senses this and tells her to wait. He tells her no. He tells her if she comes without permission she will be punished. And he tells her to continue. She is trembling, holding back as much as she can. She bites her tongue so hard she feels tears at her eyes.

Is she being whipped? It is sharp, it is fast, and it is repeating. She begins to experience synesthesia; she can feel colors in pain, she can see the sounds of him beating her. She is confused, falling again, and unable to breathe. She can't feel anything, and she lets herself disconnect, disappear, and...

She gasps.

He tells her to breathe, almost a bark, ordering her to breathe in and out. She does. Too fast at first, but she tempers it, finds control, and feels her body again. She has not stopped with the massager, and she can feel his hands warm on her skin. One hand on her foot, squeezing both as a connection and to feel her body heat.

One hand is at her stomach, resting, letting her know he has all of her in place.

He tells her to come, but he says he doesn't want to hear it like he did earlier. She does, as quietly as she can, through clenched teeth and closed eyes beneath the hood. She lets it wash over her, drown her. This time she reminds herself to breathe.

He takes the massager away and she feels him unbind the leather strap. He runs his hands over her body. She feels herself relax, calm, and realizes she is breathing deeply, regularly. She can feel him lean over her, against her, almost laying on her. He is warm, comforting, and safe. He holds her there, his forehead against hers, one hand at her waist and the other at the top of her head. He applies pressure, but it is not painful.

After a moment he moves away and tells her to stay there, he will help her sit up. He asks her to tell him if she is dizzy or uncomfortable. She sits up with him and she says she is neither. He brings her water and helps her drink through the hood. He holds her there for a moment, letting her body and mind settle, before leaving her to put the glass back on the dresser.

When he comes back he helps her to stand. She is able to stand on her own and so he moves the table, leg supports still spread apart, and positions her between them. She is facing away from him, facing and holding on to the table. He presses her face into the table, hard, and tells her not to move. She does not.

She can hear him moving at the toy racks. She can hear various sounds of metal hangers and other materials as he makes his choices and removes them from their display.

And then she feels a sting like she had not yet felt tonight. And then, a flogger? Yes, a flogger! The thud, even when they sting, of a good flogger makes her wet. She felt rewarded as he beat her back, her ass, her legs.

Hard, then harder, then harder still. She would whimper, make noise, but she was careful to temper her vocals (not as easy feat for her).

As she melts into the table under his flogging she feels that sting again. Aaaauughh! she can't help but cry out this time. He repeats it and she feels as if she is cut. The exact opposite of the fluid feeling she was experiencing just a moment ago, this was cutting, biting, and more painful than anything she had experienced tonight... if ever.

And then he stopped.

He leaned against her, his whole body pushing her into the table. His forehead at the back of her head, his hands were rubbing her ass, her thighs, her hips. He asked her a question which she cannot remember and she gave a response which is just as much as mystery. He said she would take two more.

And he leaned back and quickly whipped her once.

Twice.

And a third time.

Her legs were shaking, her mind was numb with pain, and she remembers almost crying but stopping herself. He left her standing there for a moment but only a moment. He is there, wrapping around her, holding her, comforting her, warming her.

"Good girl."

She sighs with relief.

He helps her stand up straight and makes sure she can hold herself up. He moves the table and she hears him move away. When he returns he is guiding her steps, moving her across the room. She is shaking a little, but she is steady enough. She feels him guide her into the chair and she audibly mews; her ass is too sensitive for that chair and its metal plates, its half seat. He doesn't acknowledge her thinly-veiled complaint, just sits her down.

"Oh!" she sighs; the seat is soft, velvety, and cushioned. It is comfortable and comforting.

"Oh!" he mocks her a little. She can hear the small smile on his face.

"Thank you," she says softly.

He repeats, as he begins to remove the hood, "Good girl."

He removes the hoods and positions himself standing between her legs. He wraps his arms around her head and shoulders and holds her, tells her she may reach out if she likes. She does. She holds on to him, breathing against his chest.

Comfortable.

Overwhelmed.

Refreshed.

Important.

Valued.

Pained and in pain.

Connected.

Respected.

Safe.

"Good girl."

"Thank you."