Archive for BDSM

The Parking Lot

The elevator doors opened and revealed Cheyenne standing in the hall outside Dr. F______ office.

“Ms. B______,” she said. “Welcome back. The doctor will see you now. Allow me.”

She stepped into the elevator, inserted a key and pressed one of the basement buttons. Once it lit up, she straightened herself and looked up at the progression of floors.

She was wearing a heather gray wool jacket and straight skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She did not look at me or address me beyond her initial instruction.

The elevator arrived at the specified floor after what felt like hours and when the doors opened, I turned to Cheyenne, who did not step forward. She motioned simply into the darkened parking lot with a hand.

I rolled my eyes and stepped out. As predicted, Cheyenne keyed the doors shut and disappeared in the silver tube, leaving me alone in the creepy basement place. I looked at my mobile phone. No reception. Of course not. I lit a cigarette and began to walk across.

There were few cars. Most of them were covered, but all of them were good looking cars. I know nothing about cars, but I do know about aesthetics and these cars were very visually appealing. I touched one with my fingers: dust. An old man’s abandoned toys–as depressing as a teddy bear lying on the side of the road.

I lifted one of the covers and looked at a gorgeous machine, the sort of thing in which a treacherous, villainous woman would have herself chauffeured, which I would later discover was a Bucciali TAV 12, of which only two are known to exist in the world, one in France and one in the United States. Right here. Somewhere under Los Angeles.

I took a long drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my heel and began to pull the cover off the car. Its body was black and square. I ran a hand over the red line that ran across its side and my eyes focused on the peculiar image of a silver bird with gold wings on the side near the grille.

A sudden burst of force suddenly knocked me into the car, the impact of which caused a series of alarms to go off around me. In a motion, my hands were behind my back and I was motionless, pressed against the long hood of the car, my face staring into the empty windshield of the Bucciali. My focus on the reflection of my assailant in the vague reflection of the dusty car prevented me from going into a panic.

I was so focused on it that I didn’t realize he’d tied my hands until I felt him working the rope around my fore-arms. I pressed my pelvis against the car, trying to manipulate myself out of his grasp.

Dr. F______ put one hand on my back and flattened me into the car again.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No.” I responded.

He put a hand under my belly and flipped me over so I was looking up at him. He pushed up my skirt a bit and began to bind my thighs with a rope with such dexterity, I was unable to react in a way to prevent it.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No!” I said, obstinately, though I could not move my limbs from the knees up.

He took me by the front of my coat and threw me to the ground.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked once again, the alarms still echoing around us.

“You can tie me up all you like, Doctor,” I said with a smile. “But you can’t keep me.”

He knelt beside me. His face came close to mine.

“I can’t keep you,” he repeated. “And why is that?”

“Someone would notice. Your office is the last place on my planner. They would know it was you.”

“And who is they?”

“The police.”

“What if I don’t mean to keep you?” he asked me.

What is he going to do? I wondered, feeling my impertinence shrink and fear begin to take hold. What good was the police after the first forty eight hours? If he doesn’t mean to keep me–would he dispose of me?

In the dim light, Dr. F______ looked like the perfect serial killer. Well-kept, in black lambswool sweater rolled up almost to the elbow, showing impressively shaped forearms. The stuff of Bret Easton Ellis’s twisted mind.

F_____ looked down at me and smiled, it was almost a kind smile. Except, well, you know, he’d tackled me, tied me up and thrown me on the ground. F_______ nodded and then he placed a blindfold over my eyes.

Darkness. I don’t know how long I lay there. With the sound of alarms fading fast, the cold pavement smelled like the silence of the forgotten.

A movement suddenly pulled at my shirt and I felt the cold harden my nipples. I tried to sit up, but was met with the force of his sole.

Oh, my god.

In time, the weight of his foot disappeared, but I didn’t dare move and invite it back. I wondered whether rolling would give me enough time to get up. Just then, I felt something cold, I thought it was a hand but it rolled between my exposed tits and down my side and I realized it was water. No, not water, water doesn’t move up a breast and circle a nipple. Ice.

I hate cold. I wasn’t joking when I told him Russia’s winter sent me running. It’s one of my least favorite sensations. My teeth clattered from my shivering.

“Do you feel trapped?” F______ asked.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Yes, I’m trapped! I’m trapped.”

“Do you think saying that will compel me to untie you?”

“No, but can you at least cover me?”

“Why would you like to be covered?”

“Because I’m cold,” I said. “Please.”

“You need to be cold right now.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because that’s what I want,” he responded. “From now on, we’re going to do what I want.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What I want is for you to be cold and be still. Do not move until I give you express permission to do so.”

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps fading away and finally the ding of an elevator and the swoosh of doors opening and closing.

Silence. Cold. I lay still for a long time. My lower back, which was resting on my bound elbows, screamed with pain. I couldn’t feel my elbows or arms. Every once in a while, a fit of shivers would send pain shooting up and down my arms.

Finally, when the silence convinced me no one else was there, I rolled on my side. Immediately, all the pain in my arms that had been numbed by the lack of circulation made itself felt. I winced and bit my lip, afraid to make any sound.

I shimmied, my face to the ground, trying to loosen the fabric around my face. Finally, it began to slip until it was around my nose. I looked around for him. He wasn’t there. He’d literally left me in the middle of the parking garage. Still on my side, I pulled my knees up and began to gnaw on the knot F______ had made. If I could free my thighs, I would better able to move, perhaps find an object against which to loosen the ropes holding my arms.

It’s amazing. The instinct that propels flight in creatures shoots such incredible quantities of adrenaline into the body that suddenly, every physical concern fades. No pain, no fear, no system of analysis. All I could think about was escaping.

I was at that rope forever, finally, it began to loosen. I wasn’t able to fully untie it, but with it loose, I managed somehow to slip a leg out of it. Getting up, I shook the rope off the other leg. I looked around. Not a sign of him. Not a sign of anything to help me remove the rope holding my arms. And certainly not any kind of fire escape.

Is that even legal? Shouldn’t every building have one?

I knew it was pointless, but I still ran to the elevator and tried to call it down. At first I thought I wasn’t pushing hard enough–hard to do with my hands tied, and certainly when I can’t quite tell after having turned around where the button is. Then I noticed the card slot. Of course. You need an access key.

So I’m stuck in a basement, tied up, by myself either with a psycho or a brilliant therapist.

Is it naive that I want to believe this is some brilliant form of therapy, of illustrating what it means to have no control?

The elevator made a ding and I jumped, my heart pounding like a chariot without a charioteer against my ribs. I quickly turned around and flattened myself against the wall.

I felt the swoosh zip through my body as the elevator doors opened. F______ stepped out and took a couple of large steps forward before he paused to pan the room.

I quietly inched along the wall and began to back into the elevator.

One of my coat buttons hit the mirror when I pressed against the inside of the elevator. I held my breath, but after a couple of quick steps, a hand landed heavily on the doors, causing them to open completely.

F______ peered in. He had a look of mild amusement on his face.

“I was hoping you would be a good girl and do as you were told,” he said to me. “But I was also hoping you would misbehave so I could show you what happens when you don’t do what I tell you.”

The doctor reached into the elevator, took me by the hair and dragged me back to the parking lot, where he threw me face-down on the dusty hood of a Bentley.

Holding me in place with his own body, he pulled up my skirt until it was around my waist. When he pulled a way, a hand remained tangled in my hair, holding my face down. What was he going to do?

Slap! A palm landed evenly on my ass. I couldn’t believe it. Was he spanking me? Slap! came the answer. Yes. Slap! He hit me hard, each sting searing through my body. He hit one cheek, then the other, then alternated again. I began to feel raw.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked me.

I didn’t know what to say. If I said yes, would he stop?

He slapped me again.

“When I speak to you, you will respond. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I said.

He paused.

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes.”

“Spread your legs.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

I spread my legs slowly.

SLAP! His hand landed square on my pussy.

“OW!” I screamed, closing my legs.

F______ pressed down on me again, crushing my arms into my back. I could feel his hot breath against my neck as his free hand battled with my legs to push them apart. I fought him. I fought him with my hips. I fought him with the strength of my ass cheeks and thighs. But he got through.

And when he did, he found I was soaking wet.

There was a pause in his movements. Finally, a breath escaped his lips and rushed against my neck.

“Do you like this?” he asked me, in a different tone.

“I–I don’t know,” I confessed.

He said nothing, then rose. My arms were pulled this way and that as he untied the rope. When he was done, he turned me around so I was on my back. We looked at each other in uncomfortable silence.

I’m not really embarrassed by anything but this, somehow, was a bit mortifying. The man had been abusing me, teaching me what it was like to have no control and instead of understanding my situation and giving in to terror and impending death, I’d become aroused.

I’d ruined my therapy. Again. Fine. Whatever. It had its benefits.

“Fuck me,” I said looking directly into Dr. F______’s green eyes.

He simply stared.

Taking his sweater with a hand and pulling myself up so my face was inches from his, I looked at his lips before looking into his eyes and repeated, “Fuck. Me.”

He brought a hand to mine and I released my hold on his sweater. I could smell myself on his fingers. I brought his hand to my mouth.

I sucked his fingers, one by one and he watched, with no expression. Finally, when I had finished, I released his hand and he bent to pick up my purse from where it had slid during the first struggle and handed it to me.

“Cheyenne will contact you in regard to a next appointment once I review the conclusions reached today,” he said simply.

I dropped my purse on the ground and looked at him.

“What, that’s it?” I asked. “You assault me, you tie me up, you spank me, you feel my cunt and then you send me home?”

“It is enough for today.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It is not enough. It is not even close to enough.”

I pulled him to me by his belt. He took both of my hands in one of his and looking at me with a small smile, asked, “do I need to tie you up to take you out of here?”

I sighed and pushed my skirt down. Three of my buttons were missing, so it was impossible to button up my blouse. I removed the blindfold, which was now around my neck, and buttoned my coat over my torn blouse. I pulled a clip from my purse and pinned my hair up.

If I had been a little mortified before, now, I wanted to die. As I followed him into the elevator, I began to freak out. Who the hell asks her therapist to fuck her? What’s wrong with me?

He said he’s going to “review the conclusions reached today”–what does that even mean? Is he going to have me committed? I hope at least he medicates me something decent.

We don’t exchange a word on the way up. In the lobby, he gives me a nod as I exit and that’s that.

When I look at my phone, I realize I’ve been “in therapy” for four and a half hours.

Spinning Class

Shit! I’m late for spinning class again!

I run into the locker room and change quickly, then head for the spinning hall in a hurry. There is one available bike. Next to Dan.

Yes! I say to myself, with a little thrill. Dan is so insanely gorgeous, I’ve been drooling over him for two months. I’ve even tried to make contact with him, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested–not in me or anybody else.

Oh, well, you’re always allowed to dream, I think as I hop on my bike and start to pedal softly. I turn right hoping to catch Dan’s eye and say hi, but as usual, he seems to be in his own world. Lame. But God damn, he’s so beautiful!

Our instructor comes through the door, breathless, but exceptionally sunny as usual.

Well it’s not just me who’s late, I think, kind of satisfied with myself.

“Today we’re going to work hard, everyone!” she said, walking to the front of the room. “Are you ready?”

Yes, I’m ready! I think. Fuck, I haven’t had sex for three months–I need a release for all my sexual frustration!

The instructor puts on music. Techno, as usual. I put on a little resistance on my spinning bike, and feel the muscles in my legs slowly start to wake up. I cast a glance to the right again; Dan doesn’t not seem to see me at all.

Whatever, who gives a fuck? I think to myself. Suddenly I’m really irritated and I decide to give everything I’ve got today. Five minutes go by, and I put on even more resistance. Starting to get warm now. Ten minutes: a drop of sweat runs down my forehead. I put on more resistance until I feel the acid burst in my thighs. I slow down the intensity a bit and drink some water. I take this opportunity to look at Dan.

He’s working the bike inhumanly hard and I see the sweat running down his face, his thigh muscles are hard and strained. I take a last sip of water and increase the intensity of my spinning again. Twenty minutes have passed, and now I’m really hot and sweaty. Beads of sweat run everywhere–I’m starting to feel horny. I always get horny when I get really hot.

Suddenly I feel something wet hit my right arm, I look down. There are four drops of sweat. They’re not mine. It’s Dan! He ran his hand through his hair and splashed me!

Oh my God, I think, horrified. Do not do this to me! It almost makes me come.

Instead, I turn to him and snap: “Hey! You’re sweating on me!”

I hold up my right arm to give him the proof. He looks at my arm, no sign of recognition or feeling in his eyes. His lack of response arouses the devil in me and while he’s still looking at my arm, I bring it to my face and lick his drops of hard work.

His eyes suddenly come to life, and I feel shy when I see the new expression in them–he looks like Satan himself, and he has come up from hell to get me. His tongue slides along his lips, deliberately seductive. He brushes his hand through his hair again–this time on purpose–and his salty rain pours down on me.

Help! I think. What happens now?

I press down the brakes of the bike and come to a stop. He gets off his bike, takes me firmly by the wrist and drags me out of the spinning hall. Outside the room, we don’t exchange a word. He pulls me down the corridor and into the handicap restroom.

He slams the door shut and locks it. I see my life pass in review. Does he intend to kill me? Suddenly, I’m afraid, but part of me is excited, and I feel a jolt shoot from my stomach to my pussy.

“Undress!” Dan commands.

I hesitate.

“I said: get undressed!”

I dare nothing else than to do as he says.

“Do you feel tough now?” he asks me, angry-eyed.

“N-n-no, err-no,” I stutter.

“You were so tough before, that’s suddenly over?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a soft voice.

“I think you need a little discipline right now.”

Should I lie down? I wonder. Should I roll over and play dead?

Dan jumps at me, takes hold of my neck with one hand and pushes me against the wall. My pulse races, hitting 250 at least. He leans towards me.

“Little whore!” he says, before pressing his mouth against mine in a greedy French kiss.

He presses his entire body against mine, and I can feel that he likes what he’s doing. He is adamant. My stomach is burning now, the lowest part, and I’m not afraid anymore, I only wish that he would take me, here, right now, immediately. He has other ideas.

He tears himself away from me and takes off his shirt and shorts. His entire body is glistening in sweat. I want to lick all of him, and before I realize it, I am. Starting at the bottom of his calves, slowly approaching his upper body, I lick the knee, and up the inside of his thigh. I don’t touch his dick, I continue up the stomach and chest until I reach his neck.

I bite him there–hard. First, he’s paralyzed, but then he grabs hold of my hair and pushes me down.

“Suck my dick!” he says. “Do it well, bitch!”

I try fighting back, but he’s strong. He has me trapped on my knees.

I start to play around with my tongue on his dickhead. He drags me backwards by the hair, looking into my eyes.

“Did I say that you could lick my dick?” he demands. “No, I told you to suck me. Do it! Now!”

My legs stop working, they are completely numb. I’m so horny that had he not told me what to do, I wouldn’t have had any idea where or how to begin. But Dan knows exactly what he wants.

I lick my lips slide his hard dick into my mouth slowly. Completely. He moans deeply.

“Continue! If you’re good enough you’ll have permission to ride me.”

I am a sacrificial lamb in his hands. I do as I’m told. I enjoy the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of my mouth.

He praises me, almost tenderly: “Good girl! You like to suck dick, don’t you?”

I start to increase my rhythm a bit, and he pulls me my hair harder. I take a firm grip around his balls with one hand, and begin to massage him between the balls and ass with the other.

“You like this you little bitch. Is your pussy wet now?”

He starts to fuck me hard in the mouth. I’m looking up at him, and when we get eye contact, he explodes in my mouth. Convulsions race through his sweaty body, and he slides down to the floor before me.

He covers my mouth and nose with one hand and commands, “Swallow.”

I can’t breathe–I have no choice but to swallow. I want him so badly, I feel almost like I’m about to burst. My legs are shaking, hell, my whole body is shaking.

But I’m a little disappointed, too. Is it over? I wonder. I got nothing!

In a sudden move, Dan gets up and takes hold of my neck. He pulls me up and bends me over the sink.

“Now I will check how much you liked this, and I bet my dick that you loved to be used. People like you tend to like it.”

He gets on his knees behind me, and I suddenly feel incredibly naked.

“Spread your legs so I can see properly,” he instructs.

I hesitate, feeling embarrassed. Brutally, Dan forces my legs apart.

“Your pussy is running. Like I said: you like to be used. Maybe I will use you more. And, I promised you pleasure if you did a good job on my dick. Do you think you deserve my cock in your pussy now?”

“Yes, you shit!” I hissed determined.

He takes a good hold of my ass cheeks and keeps holding them tight.

“Get rid of that attitude, you slut!” he exclaims. “If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m the boss here! It is I who decides what is to happen and not. I control you now!”

I’m silenced and he buries his face into my pussy. Only a thin squeak escapes out of my mouth.

Oh God, so delicious!

“It tastes like your pussy is really horny,” he murmurs in between my lips.

I’m about to kneel, but he does get his arms around my thighs and keep me upright.

“Do you want my dick now?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my body trembling.

He slaps my clit. Hard.

“Say it! Say what you want!”

“I-I-want your dick,” I say uncertain.

“Say it like you mean it!”

He gets up, and with one hand firmly planted on my hip, he begins to rub his solid dick against my wet, shivering pussy. If my clit could talk, she would scream out what he wanted to hear. I feel an intense longing to feel him inside of me.

“I want your hard, throbbing cock inside my pussy now!” I say, turning to face him. “I want you to fuck me hard! I will do whatever you want, I just need you inside of me now, before I go insane!”

I have never talked that way before. But I have never been as horny as I am now, either. The feeling of being in his power is incredibly liberating; strangely enough, I feel perfectly safe.

“There. Now, you were good, my little whore. You did as I told you. It is absolutely correct. You have no choice but to do as I say.”

He turns me around, then takes hard hold of my tits and presses me against his chest. I’m shaking with expectation.

He rams his dick brutally into me from behind, and I shout out. As wet as I am now, it is completely impossible to harm me no matter how hard the thrust.

He continues to run into me hard, but slowly, and I feel that I might dissolve at any moment. Dan loosens his grip on one of my tits, and starts massaging my clit. Hard. Almost a little too hard. But I can feel that it doesn’t really matter at this point.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks.

My answer is a little whimper.

He increases the pace of his thrusts. Stronger, faster. Faster, faster. I know that I’m about to come, and my body starts to shiver. He stops.

“Are you coming? Did I tell you you could come now? No, I haven’t said a word about that.”

Tears are not far away now. Why is he so mean to me? I wonder. It must be how it is to be in hell.

He pulls out and takes me brusquely and sits on the lid of the toilet. I bet it’s cold, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Want more? I know you want more, come here and sit down on me.”

I almost can’t walk; simultaneously, I feel numb. I manage to sit down on his dick, facing him.

“Turn around!”

I get up and turn around, before I again sit down on him.

“Now we will see if you have skills enough to ride my dick. If you are really good I may let you come.”

Oh my god, is this guy for real?! I wonder.

Nothing I could have said would have mattered, and I find that it turns me on even more. I move forward with my hips, then backwards, trying to create a good rhythm. He gets a hard grip around my tits. I keep riding him for a couple of minutes, in a fairly quiet pace.

Dan doesn’t utter a sound, and it makes me panic. What if he doesn’t think I’m good enough? Then I won’t come!

“You should do a little better than that if you want me to let you come. You have to deserve the orgasm.”

I increase the pace considerably and used the muscles in my lower belly for all they are worth.

“There you go! That’s much better.”

I’m starting to get tired now. Exhausted from being so excruciatingly horny. My pace and intensity are gradually decreasing, and with panic I think he’s mad at me again. But No. He is happy with me.

“Turn around now,” he whispers.

I almost can’t do what he asks of me, but I make it happen somehow. He helps me in place, one arm around me, below my own arms. He keeps me firmly in place over his dick. We start again and he begins rubbing my clit. He increases the tempo and intensity, and I know that before long I’ll be coming. My body starts shaking, and he fucks me even more intensely.

“Are you coming? You want me to let you come this time?” he asks.

“Yes,” I moan, my voice hoarse.

“Do you think you’ve earned it? I think so, and now I will fuck you hard and watch you.”

I can’t talk. My brain is not present anymore. I explode in an orgasm that at least measures at seven on the Richter scale. My orgasm shakes his dick so violently that he roars loudly when he comes inside me. I can feel his cum, a volcano outburst of sperm. My tears are running freely now, and I sob noticeably. I sink down, putting my head on his shoulder and my arms around him. He kisses me softly on the shoulder, and loosens his grip.

“Let me look at you.”

I almost dare not look him in the eyes.

“Look at me,” he repeats.

I lift my eyes to his. The smile he gives me is comforting and boyish. He bursts out with a hearty laugh.

Who is this man really? What is he laughing about?

“You are beautiful!” he says, laughing.

He lifts me off of himself, and gets dressed quickly.

“I have to go now. Same time next week?” he asks, with a smile and a wink.

He does not wait for my answer, just closes the door when he leaves. There I am, naked and used.

But absolutely completely satisfied!

Wanda

Text from Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.

Bound

Guadalupe at SubCamp, a Retoir treat courtesy of Fetishboxxx.

Faux-Foucault: S&M Cautionary Tale

When Jennifer was living in Los Angeles between university and grad school, she was involved in an affair with a man she called “my faux-Foucault”, a shaven-headed singer with some local industrial band. All very s/m, of course. Jennifer’s s/m fantasies went back to her teen years in Tucson, and at university she’d found people who’d taught her to love the whip.

Now–the gearhead singer had the right look for her, and he was willing to use a riding whip without mercy. But he wasn’t… well… as competent an s/m player as he might have been. There’d already been one Bad Situation–the gearhead hadn’t recognized during an erotic asphyxia scene that Jennifer was turning a bit too blue…

Nonetheless, when he called to say that he wanted to come over one sunlit afternoon and violate her, she went out for lunch at some trendy organic/vegetarian restaurant and then came home and dressed up to be violated and punished as soon as the gearhead made his appearance.

[Note: I did laugh at her description of the bald gearhead as “faux-Foucault”. I know what she means–shaven skull, wire-rimmed glasses. But given the proclivities of the real Michel Foucault… Let’s just say that Mister Taylor always mockingly calls Foucault, “ma belle Michel(le)”, when describing the “Wheel of Foucault” game show I created.]

So… There the lovely and leggy Jennifer is: on tiptoe, handcuffed to the shower curtain rod, fully gagged, collared, and corseted down to 18 inches. Faux-Foucault is whipping her ’til she bleeds; Jennifer is dripping wet with lust. Then, she senses something going very wrong. The expensive organic/vegetarian spinach-and-alfalfa salad is just not sitting well. At all. She realizes that she’s about to lose her lunch.

Jennifer panics and tries to push the gag plug out of her mouth. Faux-Foucault finally realizes that something is wrong. Jennifer manages to say that she’s about to be sick. The bald gearhead loses it. He fumbles getting the gag out; he can’t operate the quick-release clasps of the corset. With Jennifer’s waist corseted down so ruthlessly, she can’t inhale deeply enough to get enough muscle power to expel anything that comes up from her throat. The collar is too tight on her airway. Faux-Foucault screams (“like a grade school girl”, Jennifer wrote) and ran for the kitchen to get a knife to cut the corset and collar off.

Jennifer managed to spit the gag clear and try to contract her muscles. When Faux-Foucault made it back in to cut her down he found her choking and vomiting up spinach and blood all over the bathroom. He whimpered and shrieked and finally managed to get her out of the corset and get her breathing again and get her over to the toilet where she could empty herself out.

He did clean the bathroom up, Jennifer wrote. She had to give him that. She spent a good half hour on the phone berating and threatening the manager of the restaurant while the bald gearhead mopped and scrubbed. All Jennifer could say was that at least nothing got on her very expensive black silk thigh-highs. That was one small victory. But she was sick for days, and the muscles of her chest and raw throat ached and burned for two weeks.

There’s a moral to the story. There really is. I’m just not sure where one looks for it. The story says something about sleeping with shaven-headed faux-Foucault gearhead boys. That’s always a Vur’ Bad Idea. My own thought, of course, is that it says something about eating organic/vegetarian. Since my entire intake of vegetables is limited to Crowder peas and Our Friend the Potato, I find even non-rancid spinach and alfalfa to be hideous and evil.

I wrote the lovely Dr. Thompson that I’d found the letter and that even now, two years after first reading it, I was still convinced that there was a lesson or two here: no bald and incompetent gearheads, and… avoid greenstuff. Organic/vegetarian food is probably a tool of the Vile Andaman islanders and the batrachian Manx.

Position 9

Kneel on the floor, folding each leg gracefully underneath the thighs, knees together and back straight, with the feet flat on the floor and the buttocks resting over them.

Position 9 is commonly known as seiza, which means “correct sitting” in Japanese. Traditionally, when in seiza posture, it is preferable to move on the feet and knees rather than standing up to walk. This is to be observed if beckoned by Elias while sitting seiza-style.

It isn’t uncommon for the uninitiated to experience pain, loss of circulation and numbness the first few times they try to sit in seiza posture. Physical discomfort lessens with experience.

The Walk

“Dr. F______ will arrive at 5:00AM to pick you up,” Cheyenne commented when she phoned earlier. “You might want to wear pants.”

It was a weird thing to say. Sure, I had never had an appointment with my therapist before sunrise and I had never had him at my house, but what was really weird was that Cheyenne has never given me specific instructions before like this before. I wondered what the reason was.

That evening, when Elias appeared at the door of my apartment, he didn’t look displeased to see me in a dress. A dress and the too-small trainers he had gotten me.

“Zita,” he said, coming in and looking at my feet with a half smile. “Nice to see you.”

He had never been at my apartment before. I let him in the door and motioned for him to take a seat in my living room. He took in the place, either psychoanalyzing me or looking for somewhere to hang me from the ceiling. Preferably the latter.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” I asked him.

“Offer yourself.”

“Yes, Elias,” I responded and, putting my hair up in a single silver pin, I dropped into Position 2 and pulled the top of my dress down to expose my tits and the hem up to show my ass and pussy.

“You are not wearing pants.”

“No, Elias.”

He smiled.

“Very well,” he said. “That was only a suggestion for your sake.”

“My sake?” I asked.

He ignored me, inspecting me. he ran a hand over my tits, which were healing nicely.

“My little canvas,” he said.

It stung when he touched me. I clung to the pain greedily. He pinched my nipple. Hard, then harder.

“Thank you, Elias.”

He circled me so he could inspect the marks on my ass. I still carried light imprints of his hands: one on my right ass cheek, one on my inner thigh and one on my back, under my left shoulder blade.

In this dress, he could admire two of them with ease.

“I have a trifle for you,” he said, circling back to face me.

He lifted my chin with a hand and ran a hand down my cheek.

“May I look at you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he responded.

He slapped me as soon as I opened my eyes and smiled at the pain he saw in them.

“My little painslut,” he said.

“Yes, Elias.”

“You think you can serve me, do you?”

“Yes, Elias.”

“You will show me.”

Elias pulled a box from his coat pocket. I watched motionless. He opened it and pulled out a thick, white band. A collar, with a large metal ring in the center. He placed around my neck.

“Do you know what this is, Zita?”

“A collar, Elias.”

“A symbol,” he said, his voice soft. “That you are being trained to be my slave. I am making a commitment to your education and I expect the same from you.”

He tightened it.

“You will wear it whenever we go out and whenever else I indicate.”

“Yes, Elias.”

“Arrange your dress, Zita.”

I did as instructed and began to rise.

“Did I tell you to get up?”

I returned to position: “no, Elias.”

He pulled the collar so the ring was at the back of my neck. I heard a small click and then felt a tug.

“We’re going for a little walk.”

Crawling is one of the first things the human animal learns to do. Studies show babies that crawl develop better cognitive skills. I didn’t crawl.

A proper Catholic upbringing requires one spend a significant amount of time on her knees, but I hardly managed that either. I have extremely sensitive knees. The idea of crawling on them now was particularly unpleasant.

But I wanted to show him I wasn’t posturing. I wanted to show him how hungry I was to serve someone, to give myself entirely to a cause and reason greater than myself.

I spread out my fingers and press my shins and feet into the ground to manage my weight properly and began: right hand forward, left knee forward. Left hand forward, right knee forward. Face forward, ass out.

My skirt rode up my ass. When Elias opened the door, I felt the night air move between my legs and press against my wet pussy.

It’s not always like this. I’m not always like this. Elias does something to me. I don’t know what.

And so he strolled and I followed, on already aching knees. I imagined him with his own dog, did he walk it like this, when he’s at home, doing more mundane things? Does he even have a dog?

A bitch, I thought to myself, with a smile.

I crawled. Jokes aside, I began to think about how little I knew of Elias. We’d been doing this for a few months and I still didn’t know anything about him. Who was this man? Where did he live? Was he in a relationship? Did he have children?

We continued around the block. The sun was starting to rise. A jogger ran by, probably lost in some self-help audiobook or a podcast. She didn’t give us a second look.

I kept crawling. Elias increased his pace and my knees screamed. The pain was unbearable.

I had to piss.

I crawled. The sun began to lighten the sky. Electric blue. There were more cars now. I imagined people’s faces as they looked at us, as they looked at me, like this, being walked on hands and knees.

“Elias?” I asked, tentatively.

“Yes, Zita,” he responded.

“I’m sorry—can we—I have to relieve myself.”

He stopped and looked down at me.

“Do you want to piss, Zita?” He asked, a smile playing on his face.

“Yes, Elias,” I responded.

He said nothing.

I bit my lip.

He turned back toward my apartment.

Almost to my building, Elias paused at the elm outside on the lawn. I stopped and looked up at Him.

“Well?” He asked.

“Sorry?”

He slapped my ass, “need I explain myself?”

“Thank you, Elias,” I stammered.

I looked at the tree.

“Thank you.”

I knew better than to squat. I lifted up a leg and tried not to piss all over myself.