Part III: Dressed and Redressed It's funny how reality differs from fantasy. I had never quite imagined how awkward it would be to be led by a leash while blindfolded. When you're young and playing Helen Keller with your friends, at least you have the power to walk where you choose, at your own pace, and to stop when you feel unsteady. With the leash, I felt completely off-balance...perhaps because I was being led forward by my neck, at a pace one or two steps faster than I would have preferred. I wondered if my not-particularly-compassionate leader would have even noticed, had I stumbled and fallen on my face, or if she would have just dragged me the rest of the way. Mercifully, we reached our destination before I had to find out. The stereo had been turned off, making it easier to hear a curtain pulled open, and after two more steps ahead, the sound of it being pulled closed again. "Hold still," she said, in what I had now determined to be a Dutch accent, and I felt the tug of the leash loosen a bit but then pull me a bit more upright. As I heard her fading footsteps signaling her departure, I imagined she'd attached the handle to a hook from the wall or ceiling to keep me in place. My lack of vision punctuated every sound, every scent, every action. Two new sets of footsteps and the swish of the curtain again being pulled open and closed. The uncomfortable feeling of hands, not my own, unbuttoning my blouse and pulling my skirt from me. I felt more naked than I ever had in the past and I made it clear by my stiff, non-cooperative motions that I did not especially appreciate the treatment. "Why do you resist your Master?" asked one of the dressers in a sweet but curious voice. "Is he not the reason you are here?" "I never agreed to be treated this way." "Is he not your Dominant? Aren't you his submissive?" asked the other. "Are you not with him out of free will?" Before I could answer, the curtain pulled open again. "Here," said Ms. Catsuit, apparently handing a garment to the dressers. "She's not here to chat, girls," she admonished. "She's here to learn her place. Finish her in silence and then bring her to me." "Yes, Mistress," they answered in tandem. Being dressed while blindfolded and being held in place by a mock noose was almost as frightening as the stroll we'd completed moments before. But the girls were mercifully careful as they lifted each foot to help me to step into whatever outfit had been chosen, one steadying me as the other positioned me. I smelled the musky smell of the leather, the stiffness of the garment. They pulled it over my hips and then cinched it tight. I felt like Scarlett O'Hara in the opening scenes of Gone with the Wind, though I doubt Mammy would have chosen an outfit such as this for Scarlett, one that boosted but bared her breasts, as this one did to mine. Vanity and curiosity overtook my discomfort; I yearned to see what I was now wearing. But to my dismay, the girls halted the investigation my free hands had begun. "She won't like that," one whispered. "Stay still. It'll be easier." They fluffed my hair, applied lipstick, and placed cuffs on each ankle before leading me, still blindfolded and as awkward as before, back to their Mistress. She pulled me forward and told me to step up, onto what I imagined was the platform I'd seen earlier. My wrists were pulled skyward, then affixed to the shackles hanging from above. Hands ran up the insides of my legs, up to my thighs, forcing them about a foot or two apart. I heard two clicks and then was unable to move them again. Another click and then heat emanating from above. A spotlight, perhaps? Then no further touching. Silence. I let a minute pass and then couldn't contain myself any longer. I'd never worn a corset before and I wanted to know how if I looked as sexy as I felt. He'd never seen my breasts naked before, and I wanted to know his reaction, to hopefully see some sign of approval in his eyes. "Grahame?" I called out into the abyss, pulling a bit on the restraints to test their give. "Grahame, are you there?" A snap of fingers. Footsteps behind me. "Gag!" was all he said. Footsteps again and then fingers at my mouth. I pulled my face away and kept my lips pursed. Two or three attempts. Each one rebuffed. The sweet voice of one of the dressers again whispered into my ear. "Why do you continue to refuse? It's a simple request, standard procedure. It doesn't even hurt." "You don't understand," I pleaded more to Grahame than to the dresser, moving my head about to dodge a gag I couldn't see. "It terrifies me, being blindfolded and gagged and restrained all at once. I told you that on the phone. I can't be that out of control!" Two snaps. My blindfold was removed. I strained to adjust to the harsh light of the spotlight. I saw him about ten feet ahead of me, still seated in the lounger, slowly sipping champagne. As the blur subsided, I realized he was now undressed, except for his briefs. The girls were still on each side, their massage having moved from his feet up to his calves. The third girl was still behind him, but was now licking his neck and sucking his earlobes. His expression hid both any reaction to my disobedience or to the treatment he was receiving from the Unholy Trinity. But the growing bulge in his pants told me more than I wanted to know. "I want the gag, Dana." "No. I told you why. Please, ask for something else. Anything else." I winced as I watched the girls' hands move from his calves to his thighs, prompted by my refusal. Their long, expert fingers caressed and massaged the skin I yearned to touch myself. The girl behind him moved her attentions from his earlobes to his nipples, slowly circling and caressing each one. I watched the bulge grow even larger. I stared him straight in the eye. "Why are they here? Why aren't I enough?" "They're alternatives, dear. Either you will give me the pleasure I require, or they will. It's really up to you." "Let me down then. I would love to do that for you, you know I would." "You know, they really do quite an extraordinary trick, Marcelle and Kiana here," he said as he set aside the champagne flute and began to stroke their hair. "They kiss each other, with my cock in-between them. And as they move their heads up and down, one massages the front of my cock with her tongue while the other massages the back. Then they switch so that each girl gets to taste each side of me. Sometimes they even flick their tongues...I quite enjoy that, don't I, girls?" I felt myself turning a very unattractive shade of anger-red as the girls looked up, smiling and nodding submissively and then began reaching for his cock through his briefs, as if on cue. "Okay!" I shouted. "Okay, what?" "Okay, the gag, the gag. I'll do it. Just please, don't..." He cocked his head slightly, studying me, considering. A moment passed. Three snaps of his finger and the girls stood up and walked away. In fact, everyone left the room. It was just he and I now. He stood up and walked toward me, erection leading the way. I shifted uneasily. He ran his hands from my wrist shackles to my shoulders, feeling the taut hold of my restraints. Then along the sides of my leather corset, exploring the curve that ran between waist and hips. Then he rested his palms on my shoulders and put his lips to my ear. "We're beyond the gag now." "What do you mean? "I mean I'm getting tired of these refusals. You're here to serve, not to argue. It's going to take more now to convince me of your resolve and to amuse me." "What, then?" He gently, silently traced where the crop had struck my skin earlier. "You want to beat me again, is that it?" The memory of the earlier pain caused me to shudder involuntarily. "No. I'd much prefer to watch you being struck. I enjoy observing your expression at the moment of impact. But not as much as just the moment before, as you anticipate the pain." "The crop again?" My tone of voice bespoke my reluctance. "Not necessarily. You're going to pick this time. You can choose between the flogger, the crop and the cane." "I've never felt any of them...well, except for the crop earlier." "Ah, well I can help you there. The flogger isn't really a sharp pain, more of a thud. It will force you forward but most likely won't evoke that lovely grimace of yours. The crop...well, you know the crop. The cane is quite another matter. You really have to experience it to understand it. The pain becomes stronger several moments after the initial strike. It radiates. It's quite extraordinary, really." It was clear, which his choice would be. Now it was up to me. "Well, if I chose the cane, would it please you?" He ran his hand through my hair, sweetly, lovingly. "It would be...what I would consider to be quite appropriate right now. What you need to experience. And what I need to watch you endure." "Well, how many, then?" "How many do you think it would take to make up for your transgressions? "I don't know. This is new to me..." "Well, let's see. Since we've been together this morning, you've objected at least six times to things I've suggested or to treatments I've had administered." "So, six strokes then? Six cane strokes?" "Are you asking me or telling me?" "Both, I guess." "Why not phrase it the way I'd expect it then?" "Please, Sir," I sighed. "Please, what?" "Please....please have me struck six times with a cane. Please watch me and enjoy my pain. Is that how you want it?" "Better. In time, I'm sure practice will make perfect. One thing more though..." "Yes, Sir?" "No gag. I want you to take the strokes without making a sound." "Sir?" "Today's lesson has been about communication. When to speak. When to stop and accept. You're sadly lacking in these areas, and they're important ones to me. The cane strokes will teach you control...how to control your natural desire to speak...well, in this case, to express sharp pain. I imagine that concentrating on holding your tongue during this exercise will be even more difficult for you than taking the strokes themselves. But that's what I want. As each strike hits, I want you to watch me stroke my cock. If you do as you're told, and you take each stroke correctly-with gratitude and in silence--I'll let you finish the job the girls had started. I believe that's what you asked for in the taxi, anyway, wasn't it?" I let his words sink in. They mingled in my mind with the memory of the slave girls' slender, manicured fingertips inching toward his crotch, eager to please him. There was no way I was going to let that happen. I wanted him. Competitive as always, I wanted to show him I could be everything he wanted. I wanted him satisfied by me and me alone. "So, what's it to be? Six strokes in silence? With a nice little 'Thank you' at the end?" "Yes Sir. Yes, please." He kissed me softly on the cheek. "Good girl," he said. I beamed with pride; those words made everything that had come before seem quite worth it, and almost, just almost, assuaged my forboding of what was to come. He sat back down, and clapped his hands twice. Ms. Catsuit came out from in front of me, brandishing an ominous-looking cane. I wondered if my body was actually going to be able to cash the check my mouth had just written, but as I watched him take out his cock and start stroking it, I knew I was going to force myself to endure whatever it was going to take. "Begin," he ordered and she walked behind me to begin. I don't know which was worse, the first stroke or the ones that followed. The first was terrible because I didn't know what to expect and fear of the unknown always seemed to add that twinge of additional discomfort. But the second one, knowing how the first had stung unremittingly, was worse than anything I had ever experienced or could have imagined. Each stroke hit a different part of my body with an unrelenting slash of fire...each side of my back, above where the corset started, the back of my thighs, the back of my calves. I bit my lip to silence the screams that rose from deep inside, but couldn't prevent the tears that distorted my view of Grahame pleasuring himself as he watched the display. When it was over, I heard myself thank the Mistress for her ministrations, but it was not my voice I heard but a voice that seemingly sprang from somewhere far outside my own body. It was over. I had survived it, with six growing welts and a bloody lip to show for my ordeal. Grahame met my imploring gaze with a nod of approval. Two snaps and the dressers came forward, out of the shadows, each unshackling my wrists and then my ankle cuffs from the floor bolts. The freedom took me by surprise; I hadn't realized how helpful the restraints had been in helping me to tolerate the beating. I began to stumble forward but compassionate hands helped keep me upright. Then the room emptied, leaving the two of us alone. He beckoned me forward and told me to straddle myself over his knees. I obeyed, and then stood motionless as he unsnapped my crotch, thrusting three fingers inside me to sample my reaction to what had just transpired. Not unhappy with the result, he rubbed my ample juices onto his cock and then pushed me back so I remained before him, but no longer on either side of his thighs. One nod and I fell to my knees, his spreading his knees to give me access. I massaged his thighs and scrotum as I took him hungrily into my mouth, eager to show him that he had missed nothing by foregoing Marcelle and Kiana's oral dexterity in favor of my own. I focused full attention on providing him with ultimate pleasure--alternately sucking, licking, running my tongue up and down the shaft, gently mouthing his balls. He reacted silently, restraining himself from giving me the satisfaction of hearing a moan or two, unwilling to give up even that tiny iota of power. But as his craving grew, he made me quite aware of his growing urge to release, grabbing my hair with one hand and my collar with the other, controlling my angle, coordinating the speed of my head with those of his thrusts, until he climaxed, filling my mouth with a stream of hot cum that shot past my tongue and down my throat. As I felt him relax from his orgasm, the strain in his thighs relaxing, the grip of his hands on my hair and collar lessening, I proceeded to clean his cock of any lingering cum, providing any last moments of pleasure I could evoke. Then I looked up, licked my lips for effect, and waited. What I saw surprised me. No look of satisfaction. No visual accolades. Only an expression that a supervisor might shoot an employee for satisfactorily completing a job he'd been hired to do in the first place. I held the stare. So did he. A moment or two passed, the two of us surrounded by black velvet walls, dim lighting and the knowledge that we'd crossed a threshold together. And one of us unsure of what was to come next. "Stand up and pose for me," he finally said, breaking the silence. He'd been quite explicit about the position in our early e-mails. I stood up as directed, spreading my legs about two feet apart, hands behind my back with wrists held by opposing hands, chest thrust forward, lips slightly apart, gaze straight forward with no particular focus. He stood and walked toward me, cupping my left breast and then moving his grip forward to pull the nipple out. He repeated the move again and again, each time pulling harder, farther. I refused to complain or to deny him. As he studied and stretched, apparently equally fascinated by how far the nipple could grow and how submissive I'd become. When he did address me, it was almost as an aside. "Whose body is this, Dana?" "Yours, Sir." "You sure about that?" "Yes, Sir." "Mine, to do with as I please?" "Yes, Sir." "And if I want it in pain?" "Then it will be in pain." "Why?" "Because that's what you require, Sir." "I told you earlier that it wouldn't be the restraints or my strength that will bind you to me. I told you by the end of the day, you'd understand exactly what it would be. Do you think you can guess now as to what it is?" "Your pleasure, Sir? And my need to provide you with that pleasure?" "You're getting closer, Dana. Perhaps the next phase will bring it into even sharper focus." He gave me one last hard pull on my nipple, a gentle graze to my cheek with the back of his palm and then two snaps of his fingers, prompting Ms. Catsuit and her kinky entourage of dressers and slave girls to reappear. "I think we're ready for next door," he said to them. "Prepare her."
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