She heard the stream of water running into the tub as soon as she walked into the house. Her thoughts were how odd for the tub to be running this early in the evening, before a cocktail, before dinner, before anything. She lay her purse in the customary place and walked up the stairs, his name on her tongue, questioning. Her query received no response, so she opened the bedroom door. She noticed a wrapped, flat rectangular box with a red bow at its center.

“Is that for me, Tim?” she asked, assuming he was in the adjoining room. No answer. Her curiosity about the box was piqued and she walked over to it. Tugging the bow, she unraveled it, opened the box to find the satin dress neatly displayed in it. A deep merlot with spaghetti straps and low cut, the dress swept down past her knees when she held it up against her chest over her work clothes. That was when she felt him behind her, felt his hand at the curve of her back.

“Tonight we go out. No TV, No popcorn under a quilt. Tonight you are my jewel, treasure,” he whispered in her ear, having curved her hair around its cup. “I have a tub waiting for you.”

He undressed her as she stood in a haze. Her white blouse, black skirt that hugged her round ass so well were folded and put on the dresser. She stood before him in panty hose and a white bra. She felt his eyes drinking in her creamy skin. He hugged her into his broad chest, kissed her hair while quickly releasing the three eyehooks of the bra. Her nipples burned as he slid the bra straps down her arms. Stiffened by the look of his eyes, her nipples wanted everything. To be suckled. To have his tongue tip circle the areolae touching everywhere but the hard center, rolling over her love bumps. To be bitten as he was prone to do. To feel his spit upon them, wet and shining. To feel the delightful sting of his fingertips slapping the nipples. That ache. The throb of it to be assuaged… every throb, every ache, every sting he would ever apply to her flesh, he would balance with the light touch of tongue and lips and fingertips. A heady combination of sensations he would create. Her nipples hardened with memory, with anticipation. With want. He tweaked one, looked in her eyes and with a cockiness that infuriated and intoxicated her, he winked at her and said, “Not yet, babe. First, we dance.”

He dropped to his knees quickly, hands at her waist, thumbs inside the band of her thigh-high stockings. He tugged down her panties, bunching at her ankles, over her delicate feet. This last action brought his face to her belly. He sucked the pad of her stomach, followed with kisses to the top of her pubis. He looked up. When she looked down, his eyes locked on hers.

“You smell amazing,” he said honestly. Her aroma was earth and sweet and musk. A dangerous fragrance. He forced himself from her belly. Stood up again, towering. “Let’s get today bathed off of you,” he said, taking her hand and leading her naked into the steamy bathroom.

The hot bath misted the corner windows of the bathroom. She stepped into the deep tub into which he had poured a jasmine oil. He had the bath oils, body creams and perfumes that she enjoyed made especially for her. It was a heavy, heady scent, a confusing one that admirers would say smelled like cinnamon… Others said it smelled of jasmine and still others said it smelled of vanilla sugar cookies. Her scent would attract the attention of men, the envy of women. She loved its smell on her. It suited her: complex, heavy, confusing, irresistible. It fit that he picked it out for her. She settled into the silky warm jasmine water. He knelt beside the tub, took her arm and gently washed it with water and sponge, squeezing to allow the water to trickle over her skin. He washed her arms, her neck, her throat, her collarbone, her chest, breasts, belly, legs, each toe, kissing them as he finished. He washed her mons last, his arm disappearing into the warm water to reach her. She was wet and warm with more than water.

Finished with washing her, he whispered into her ear, “Now I want to clean you completely.” She looked at him, a question in her eye. He reached into the vanity drawer, taking out shaving foam and a razor. “I want you completely clean and bare for me. Allow me?” he asked.

Wordlessly, she raised and lowered her head twice, granting permission. He had her stand, raising herself from the water. He lifted one foot and anchored it on the side of the tub, which completely exposed her to him. He slowly spread the foam over her neatly trimmed hair and over her puffy lips, which she kept bare. He was careful not to get the foam in the folds of her silky delicate skin. The blade scraped through the foam as he made strokes, washing the head in the warm water after each pass. As he got close to the hooded clitoris, to her silken lips, his free hand touched her. His fingertips covered the sweet pink skin, providing shelter from the razor. She swooned and grabbed the back of his head for support. She flooded with excitement at this intimate, wordless act of him pampering, primping and preparing her. Short little strokes rid any stubble from her pubis, his fingers gently holding the little lips, the tender lips to the side they way he would do when shaving around the corners of his mouth. He wiped away the excess foam and then splashed warm water on her newly-shaven slit. He kissed her Mound of Venus. “Beautiful,” he mouthed into her flesh. She gripped hard on his head and ground into him. He pulled away, that infuriating and intoxicating twinkle again in his eye.

He splashed oil into his palm and smoothed it over her wet slit and mons. He splashed more into his palm and oiled her flesh completely from top to bottom. His hands wiped the water from her as they spread the oil so that her skin glistened. The cream of her skin shimmered with the addition of a small sheen of oil. Her own oils ran down her thigh from his confident touch, his hands always warm, firm but gentle. He finished and slapped her butt to let her know she was done. She stepped from the tub and he dried her feet with a towel. The rest of her had air dried as he shaved her and oiled her.

“You get ready now, fresh makeup and hair,” he said, giving her a beautiful pearl comb to hold up her hair. “Wear it up for me, please.”

As she sat at the vanity nude, she looked in the large lighted mirror and saw him stripping his clothes off and stepping into the shower. He left the glass door open purposefully and bathed in the warm streams. He butchered a Norah Jones song, “Come Away with Me,” but the shower stifled his voice. His terrible voice brought a smile to her lips as she applied a dark shade to them, a mix of blood and merlot, to match her dress. The tube was out and in place on the countertop, placed there by her lover. He has thought of everything, she thought but did not say, looking more in the mirror at him than at her face. As she finished her hair and makeup, he showered, shaved and dressed in a new tuxedo. Black pants, white shirt and white jacket. She got up to find lingerie to wear beneath the bruise-colored dress. She went to her dresser to find a good purple set, but he blocked the way. He held the dress in one hand, a pair of painfully high stiletto heels, a garter and hose in the other.

She looked up at him and knew he meant it. He adjusted the garter to her waist, the straps curving over the roundness of her hips. He then told her to lift her arms. She raised her arms for him to slide the dress over her head. Her nipples stiffened with the cool touch of the silk. Both knew her nipples would be hard all night. He bent down to her to slide her feet into the hose one at a time and cleave them to the garters. The hose were not fishnet so much as dozens of diamonds of black thread, a contrast of geometry to the natural curves of her flesh. He put her feet into the stilettos. The red gave such a contrast to the dark regal color of the dress. Gold buckles were reminiscent of some of the buckles he had used on her. Reminiscent of the bonds.

He stood up and took her into his chest without a word. The low growl in his throat said it all for her, a song she loved to hear. He slid a small box out of his tuxedo jacket pocket. She knew instinctively the kind of box and opened it to find a solid gold choker with a lock on the back. The lock resembled a padlock. She turned for him to put it on her. Standing behind her, he clamped the choker into place. It was perfectly snug. He locked the tiny padlock and his hand went to rest on her throat, to pull her back into him. His hand often searched for the delicate hollows of her throat, her collarbone. Softly he would feel for her pulse and often find it racing. As it was now.

She turned and looked up at him. “How did you know what size?” she asked.

He smiled and put his two hands together in a perfect circle. “I showed him what size to make it.” Her cunt flooded at the image of his hands making the intimate circle that had become a part of their lovemaking. Feeling the embrace of his hands on her throat so often, she had become accustomed to it, like the dog and the dinner bell. She had been undressed, bathed, shaved and dressed by a man who did it with ease, with confidence, with knowing. Her man pampered her not to seduce her, but because it pleased him to do so. She knew this from the times he said, “Not now.” This ritual, which would have lovemaking in it, was not about sex.

He moved his hand from her throat to the small exposed curve of her back. The dress ended in a V just above the tip of her bottom. The dimples in the small of her back were visible in the V of the deep bruised purple of the satin. His fingers found them and lingered there as he led her out. They stopped and looked in the hallway mirror at the top of the stairs. She was stunning. He was handsome. Together, they would earn many stares, mostly on her but a few admiring glances on him as well. He grabbed one final thing: a black silk wrap to cover her arms and shoulders if needed.

The limousine parked in the street. The driver rushed to open the door for her, but he stopped him in his tracks. “’I’ve got it, my friend,” he said, holding the door for her. He entered on the other side of the car and the drive pulled away. He closed the dark window for privacy and unwrapped the metal wrapper of the champagne bottle. He twisted the wire and then gently burped the wooden cork out of the magnum’s throat. He poured her flute, stopping before the bubbles spilled down the sides and then poured his own. After draining two flutes of champagne and sharing cheese and strawberries prepared for the trip, the two murmured words that meant nothing but conveyed everything.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a satin night mask. Sometimes she would wear it when he would get engrossed in a book or in his own writing so that she could sleep without him having to leave the room. Today, it served another purpose. “Put this on,” he whispered into her ear. “And do not take it off.” The second demand carried in his voice such a command that she knew that no matter what happened, she would not peek from beneath the satin until he allowed it.

They rode in silence for what seemed to her in the darkness as an eternity. She noticed the city traffic becoming a highway and rural. A couple of turns, bumping over a railroad track and then coming to a halt, her journey had come to its end. But she knew inside that the journey was just beginning. She was damp with excitement, hot with desire, fearful with the unknown. He got out and opened her door, helping her out of the car. He led her gently up the steps into the building. Wooden floors echoed beneath her steps, her heels severe in the emptiness of the building. She could tell it was large with high ceilings. Music began to play, Frank Sinatra. He took her into him and moved her around the room through several song changes. She was amazed at how she felt blinded in his arms. Safe. Secure. That feeling changed suddenly when she felt the rough wood of a beam against her back.

He lifted her wrists above her head, crossing them. She felt the thick leather cuffs tighten around her wrists, binding her. He dropped to his knees and quickly strapped her ankles to either side of the thick post. Her cupped her face and kissed her sweetly and deeply. His tongue slipped in between her lips, finding hers. Her suckled her lower lip, ending the kiss with a bite of the pouty member. She felt the rope around her midsection, tightening her body to the post. The rough wood pricked her spine, her shoulders, her butt. Her remaining senses of smell, hearing, taste and touch were highly tuned, having been denied her sight. She could smell iron and oil and dust and realized from the echo of his footsteps that she was in a warehouse or workshop of some sort. His scent of sandalwood insinuated itself when he stood so close to her, her face at his chest, nose below his throat.

He stepped back for a moment and then began to touch her. His fingertips traversed her flesh, raising an army of tiny hairs standing like soldiers ready for war. His fingers followed the spaghetti straps down into the swell of her breasts and slid beneath the fabric to warm her skin. He fondled her throbbing nipples with his palms, then violently squeezed them and lifted her breasts with the nubs. The weight of her own flesh worked against her, stretching the length of the nipples even more. He withdrew his hands from within her dress and traveled over her belly, her mons, her thighs. He graced her arms with the backs of his fingers so lightly that the touch hurt like a paper cut. He surprised her completely when he pulled his hands away from her totally and then brought one open hand down harshly on her left breast, the other slapping upward across her right breast.

She gasped and moaned at the assault, what she began to realize would be the first of many. The second time he slapped her skin, he did it horizontally, slapped her tits from side to side. She swayed with the motion, the rope tugging her tummy.

“We’ve got to get you out of that dress,” he said. Her arms bound above her head, she wondered about the possibility of that. The cold blade made quick work of the spaghetti straps, ruining the expensive gift. The top fell over, the rope binding her waist keeping the skirt portion of the dress in place. Her mind’s eye pictured her with her wrists bound above her head, her legs tied to the post, her belly secured to it, unable to move at all. Helpless to him. He cupped her breasts in his palms just below the nipples. “Spit on your nipple,” he commanded her.

“You heard me the first time. I said, spit on your nipple.” His voice had changed, become harsher and deeper with the need to repeat the command.

She bent her mouth down close as she could and dribbled out a string of saliva onto her nipple. She repeated the process for the other. He thumbed away the string that clung to her lower lip and then circled the wetness into the bumpy flesh of her areolae. He then slapped down across the nipple and areolae with his fingers extended, his hand flat. She cringed and felt the shock wave ride through her body, the pain radiating from the center, ripples of warmth following. He repeated the process of having her spit on herself, followed by slapping the moisture into her skin for several minutes. Her nipples hurt so much, ached so hard, throbbed in such a manner that she could think of little else. Blood coursed through the assaulted flesh, reddening it in splotches. Even blinded, she knew her skin had mottled where he had repeatedly slapped and stung the nipples.

He gripped the ball of hair at the back of her head and yanked her face so that her ear was a finger’s length from his mouth. Through gritted teeth, he seethed, “I am going to make you come… again and again, harder and harder, until you beg me to stop,” he seethed. “When I believe you really do want me to stop, I might relent. It will depend upon how obedient you are from this point forward. If I have to repeat myself, you will not like the result.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

He waited. Saying nothing, doing nothing, waiting. Her voice quavered when she realized the disrespect she had shown him.

“Sir… Yes, sir,” she said, her voice shaky and unsure of itself.

“Good girl,” he said, giving her a light pat on the cheek. He stepped away, returning. She felt two pieces of smooth wood clamping around one nipple and then the other, then tied into place with string at the ends of the wooden sticks and in the middle. As he wound the string, the grip became tighter and tighter at the base of her nipples, making the aching little members stiffen and swell. He bent and lightly touched the tip of one nipple with his tongue, then the other.

Her reaction to the tenderness overwhelmed her as cream began a trickle down her thigh. She involuntarily groaned.

He stopped, took her chin in his hand. “Did I grant permission to make noise?” She shook her head. “When I ask you a direct question, you will either answer yes sir or no, sir, if you are able to answer at all. Otherwise, shaking your head will serve as an answer, only if something is in your mouth or on your tongue. Understand me?”

“If you feel compelled to make a noise, ask me first. And do so in this manner: ‘Sir, may I please make a noise?’ or “Sir, may I please wiggle or squirm?’ To do any of those, making noise, wiggling, squirming, trying to avoid what is coming, will only result in much worse treatment. Do you understand me?”

“Finally, you may not come without my explicit permission. You must ask me permission to come with these words: ‘Sir, may I please relent to your touches and come.’ If I believe you are sincere, I may let you. If I deny you an orgasm and if you disobey me by coming, the penalty will be very severe, more severe than I would like to treat you today. Do you understand me?”

His voice was so confident, so slow and so low. It never wavered or faltered. Knowing that he was in complete control freed her of any responsibility except that of reacting to him and doing exactly as he commanded. Rather than being a burden, it was a release, an act of freedom. In his hands, she could give completely without fear. She could be who she was completely. She could be his Whore without fear of judgment. She could do anything without doubt entering her mind. She could simply be. Her nipples clamped in the grips of the two sticks and throbbing mercilessly, she had a hard time concentrating on his words. He spoke so low that she had to hang on every utterance, every syllable, every breath of his.

She was bound, blindfolded and her nipples were in the bite of a contraption she could not yet figure. Her dress fell in waves of fabric around her waist. She could hear the echoes of his shoes on the wood floor and knew the place was immense. The pole scratched irritatingly at her spine and bottom. She knew she was in store for the biggest orgasms of her life. She heard him arranging things without a clue as to what they were. She trusted him, but doubt began to insinuate itself into fear. She shuddered as she waited for him.

The click and buzz were undeniable. Even blinded she recognized the sound of the toy in his hand. He stepped closer. It shocked her nipple, clamped in the grip of the contraption, its tip swollen and aching from the earlier slaps. The buzzing ran straight to her cunt, wetting itself even more, trickling down her thigh though he had hardly touched the private spot thus far. He spit upon the other barren nipple and then touched the toy to it, waves running through leaving her unable to do anything but recoil from the touch.

His hand slapped her lightly on her face. “Did I say you could move?”

“No, sir,” she replied, he cheek flushing with anger as much as from the slap itself.

He returned to vibrating her nipples, the unbearable tickle of it replacing the hurt and throb of the slaps. He then dipped down to gently roll his tongue over the nubs, flicking at the flesh between the wooden grips in which they were captured and pinched mercilessly.

“Sir? Can I please moan when you do that?” she stammered. “Please.”

The cat o’ nine tails lightly brushed her skin, her breasts, the tips of her clamped nipples. He brushed it against her pubis lightly and her belly. He slapped her lightly with the tails, across her breasts. She gasped. The gasp became a moan on the second, third and fourth swipes as he intensified each strike. The slaps echoed in the vast room, bouncing back on the walls with her gasps and cries. Her nipples felt on fire, clamped and slapped this way. The heat radiated outward and was matched by the heat building in her cunt. She throbbed and stung and ached and fell into the rhythm of his whipping her skin. Her slapped periodically at her tummy, and even at her pubis… Causing her little pussy to sting… Needles ran through her nerves after each strike to her cunt, the feeling of a limb that has gone to sleep. Her body tingled everywhere he struck. It ached and throbbed without end. Her pussy leaked down her thighs, a trickle of desire to her knees held together in the straps. He set aside the tails, she heard him lay it on a table and the tinkle of ice cubes told her what was next. Her flesh reacted just as he thought she would, growing hotter as the ice melted on her nipples and belly a rivulet running into her pussy. He took a new piece, a larger one and fucked her with it.

He leaned into her as he used the ice phallus on her, whispering into her ear, “Come for me now… Let it go, baby. Come for me now.” The power of the quick orgasm hit her hard, surprising her. Her walls convulsed around the shaft of ice, almost squeezing it out. He pressed it in, melting and dissolving quickly within her heat. As her shudder subsided for a moment, he kissed her nose, her cheeks and mouth. “My good girl.”

She felt him loosen the straps around her legs and push her thighs together completely. He strapped her tightly to the post, her thighs now touching, the straps wound many times around her upper thighs. She was unprepared for his next move. He took a vibrator, turned it on and tucked it in the valley of her thighs, held in place by the straps. The point of it he pressed into her clitoris, where it buzzed mercilessly and unstoppingly. Another toy he placed lightly at the tip of her nipple, spitting upon the flesh and the hard plastic tip. Her nipples buzzed as her clitoris buzzed and she began to climax.

The tails were picked up once more and slapped against her pubis, making the skin ache, the clit hurt and the climax disappear. Not for long… She begged a second time and was denied again, slapped again with the tails. He also slapped her breasts with the tails and slapped her face lightly and repeated with the palm of his hand.

“Don’t you come, little girl,” he growled. Eternity went by with the relentless buzzing of both cunt and tits. She felt a third phallus, this time pressed into her mouth. “This will take you mind off your needy little cunt,” he said as he fucked her mouth.

One toy he held in her mouth, the other he toyed at her nipples and the third was clamped into its place at her clitoris. She was completely undone. A wreck. She would do anything to come. She knew that once she was allowed to come, it would be in many waves. She moaned around the phallus and asked again.

The waves ran fast and hard through her. One orgasm followed by another and another and another, unable to get away from the cause of the orgasms. She lost count as she flooded the head of the toy. If she had not been strapped tightly to the post, she knew that she would have collapsed, her legs nothing more than Jell-O.

He dropped to his knees and loosened the bonds around her legs, taking the toy away. He opened her thighs, which were saturated with come and sweat, and kissed her mons intimately. Her hands still bound above her head, she could not reach down to hold his face. She moaned as he tenderly kissed her mons and her lips. Her ducked his head so that he could reach her more fully and lifted one leg over his back. He gripped her bottom as he lavished affection on her sopping cunt. The ache and torment assuaged into a dreaminess as he twirled his tongue along her lips and clit. She drifted on him, relishing the sweet way in which he was owning her again and again.

He stopped. His face covered in her sheen, he kissed her belly and told her, “I want you to come for me, to wash me in your flow. You needn’t ask permission again tonight. I freely and fully give it. This is what I want.”

He returned to his task, loving her cunt back to another series of orgasms. They began and continued as he lifted her other leg and supported her in his hands. She shuddered in his hands, her legs down his back, tied by the stomach and arms to the post. After some time, he stopped and planted one last soul kiss on her clitoris… The way a boy would kiss a girl for the first time… Close-lipped and quickly.

He put her down again. Her legs were weak. Her body was shaking and sweating.

“Now I am going to fuck you. This is our final dance tonight.”

He let loose the binding of her stomach. She was bound again only by her wrists above her head. He turned her around, her face against the rough wooden pole. Bent at the waist, she was vulnerable to him. He gripped her ass in both hands, thumbs at the crack. He pressed into her. Slowly. His belly against her butt, he slowly withdrew and then thrust hard into her. He repeated this several times, breaking the rhythm so that she could not anticipate the thrust. He withdrew completely, his head at her opening just out of reach. He dove in, pushing her into the post. He then proceeded to increase his thrusting, building a rhythm. His hand reached for the hair, knotting around her locks. He pulled her head back and fucked her hard. As she began the longest of her orgasms, the hardest of the night, he began bursting inside her.

He ripped off the night mask and her eyes adjusted to the new use of sight. She heard clapping and looked around at several out-of-focus faces as she came completely undone, as he came inside of her… She was His.