Immersion
CHAPTER ONE
I must go back a little, to the beginning.
The day I discovered bondage and domination on the Internet I played with my body for
hours. Bare heels planted wide on the leather seat of my husband’s desk chair, legs drawn
back, panties around one ankle, fingers everywhere, stroking my pussy, pinching nipples,
clicking the mouse.
Coming and clicking, clicking and coming.
Oh, how I wanted to be in the pictures, to be the one on my knees in chains, kissing
the hand, the whip of her master...or on tiptoes, hooded, suspended off the floor, or
maybe on my back, spread eagled. I wanted it all, to be ordered to suck, ordered to crawl,
ordered to climax. I wanted to be sweetly owned, treasured, jealously kept...as a
possession.
So clear in my head...but what did Paul want? I was terrified to ask. Two years of
marriage and always so conservative. We came from ‘good’ families, two different cultures,
yes, but much the same in morals: no leather in the family tree, no tattoos or pierced
cunt lips.
What could I tell him, my considerate lover who always got me off like clockwork? How
could I let him know that his delicate, fashion model bride from Eastern Europe needed
roughness and chains and so much more?
Take me from this mantle of my making not yours, dust me off, set me free...
Two years married.
Was it that long already?
It took a week after that to work up my nerve to buy the handcuffs: gleaming silver,
covered in pink fur from the novelty store, I swear the clerk was smirking, my cheeks
pinker than the fur.
I hid them away, not daring to look at them more than a little each day. Once I tried
them on, I was so excited I nearly—what is the English word?—hyperventilated.
Another week after that, more fantasies and dreams than I could stand, and I was
ready to show him.
I couldn’t say a word of introduction. It was Tuesday, one of the nights we make
love. We always do so on Tuesdays and Saturdays, on account of Paul’s work schedule. I had
left the cuffs for him to find. They were on his pillow when he went to turn down the bed.
I stayed in the bathroom having already put on my negligee but afraid to come out.
“Mariska, come here,” he said, and I did even though I was embarrassed because, even
before I found the BDSM, I have always been an obedient girl. It made me wet, so wet, to
see him. He had a leer on his handsome, boyish face, dangling the cuffs from one hand, he
asked me only one question:
“Who wears them, baby, you or me?”
My heart was thudding. I was shy as the first time Paul had ever spoken to me. It was
a party held by a designer. I was a model then, bored and jaded. I loved him at first
sight, and he loved me. We went to bed that very first night...neither of us sleeping a
wink until dawn.
Were the cuffs for him or me? How could I say the answer?
Time stopped entirely as I held out my wrists, delicate palms up—I couldn’t breathe!
If he were to reject me right then, oh god, I would have died...if he’d laughed or said a
word...
He didn’t; he made a little gasping sound, barely audible, and then he cuffed
me...click, click, the metal locks on my wrist. I WAS CHAINED.
Hands in front of me, my husband’s prisoner.
Biting my lip, head lowered, I stood waiting, waiting, in black silk, tiny, naughty
panties of lace and a teddy also black.
My hands were imprisoned in front of me, fuzzy pink tickling my wrists and under that
steel, my husband’s steel.
His hand went under my chin...lifting...
“My god, Mariska, you look so beautiful. Why have I never seen you like this
before?”
I wanted to go to my knees; I wanted it to go all the way but part of submission is
surrender to the other’s will, isn’t it, and so I let it be up to him.
“Kiss me,” he said, and it was electric, an instant explosion. I was drawn in to his
power. I was helpless, not equal, not Mariska, his loving, house keeping wife but
something else. My pussy screamed; I was captivated, dripping wet, nipples throbbing,
images in my head.
“Take out my cock,” said Paul. “Take it out of my pants.”
I clawed feverishly with restricted hands, undoing his fly and pulling him out of his
boxer shorts; he was hot and hard in my grasp, a tool of domination...my domination; my
eyes looked into his...what would he make me do?
Tall and dark and handsome, Paul, blue eyed, clear, deep eyed, a raging river,
torrents under your calm exterior...I know it’s there.
Another kiss, this time he took without mercy. My lips flattened, tears coming to my
eyes, but it was not pain but joy...yes, yes, this was it.
He spoke the words, sheer magic: “Go and lay on the bed, Mariska.”
My legs took me, my body followed; I found my place, and my head found the pillow. My
hands went over head, falling naturally over my brown hair. In my head the truth rang, the
reality, over and over playing: I couldn’t take the cuffs off; I didn’t have the key, soft
against my skin, the fur, tickling and light, but the links between these were gleaming
and real.
I opened my legs, steamy, wet, and fragrant; I wanted to be fucked and fucked and
fucked; I wanted the silk ripped off me (Would Paul do that?)
He undressed slowly, I think too slowly, but the frustration was good, too, because I
had no say, and I could only whimper and lift my body. So beautiful, I thought, he’s
beautiful like a man is beautiful; he works out, swims every morning before work, and runs
three times a week, more times than he fucks his wife.
A Greek god shedding his clothes.
A beast unleashed...but no, his eyes, they were still tender, too tender. I didn’t
want that. I was selfish, greedy; I wanted the beast, the monster who wouldn’t care, who’d
fuck his wife because he felt like it. So I got off the bed and ran from the bedroom.
“Hey, Mariska, what gives? Krasnaya du renya?” he used one of the phrases he’s learned of
my native language.
“Come and get me, baby,” I cried, laughing like a school girl, and he followed me,
catching me in the living room, his hand around my waist. We were wrestling, and as I
squirmed against him, I was hot, hot, hot. He tossed me down on the couch, grabbed my
ankles, lifted them high and pulled off the panties. We were both laughing. “I’ll teach
you to run, Mariska. My cock shoved hard inside, is that what you want, Mariska?”
Yes, slamming against me, pinning me, one hand holding the chain of my cuffs
overhead. I answered again: Yes, that is what I want, and more, too, harder, couldn’t he
do it harder? Then came a sober moment, he looked at me, a little surprised at my
intensity, but he seemed to understand.
Not a joke now, it passed to something else.
“I’m going to come inside you,” he said, his voice low and even, a voice I’d never
heard. “I’m going to fill you up.”
I orgasmed before him, the words tripping me off, a chained girl, in subjugation, her
pussy as a receptacle, her orgasm shoved to the backseat, irrelevant and
yet...undeniable.
I screamed his name; I pushed at him and pulled and writhed, and he grunted as his
semen erupted.
We lay covered in sweat when it was done, scarcely believing it was us, our house,
our suede couch, our refrigerator humming in the background, our cat meowing from
somewhere in the spare bedroom, the one that was there for the children we’d never have.
“Mariska, wow,” he murmured. “Where did that come from?
Heart in my throat, I took the plunge. “I could show you,” I whispered.
Hand in hand we went to the computer in the den, his computer, his chair, where I
went every day to masturbate while he earned our daily bread.
I could make money, too, very much of it, but Paul didn’t want me to work, only him.
He was the man...and I had always liked that.
I admit about the websites that a part of me had wanted to be caught before this.
Each day, I wondered if he would look and see where I had been, what I did with my
computer time. But, no, he never checked on me; he’s not that kind of man.
My heart raced.
Paul sat in the chair, and I stood behind him (the cuffs were off by now) so I could
show him everything, all the pictures and the articles. I felt so naked, revealing myself,
my deepest fantasies. People live like this, Master and slave, and I wanted to live like
that, too.
Paul got quiet, the way he does when it’s too much emotionally. I didn’t press him,
that only makes him shut down more and, eventually, he’d get angry. My need to be
reassured, my fears of rejection I would have to deal with on my own, I was a big girl.
Paul’s day was long already; his job as a stock broker very hard. I stroked his hair and
asked if he was all right. Fine, he said, but he was tired; he needed some rest; we’d talk
more tomorrow.
I kissed him and thanked him for tonight, for the cuffs. “No problem,” he said and
then, after he went to bed, I stayed up and cried a little; I’m not really sure why. I was
happy and sad all at once. I didn’t look at the computer; I didn’t masturbate; I just sat
on the back porch, listened to crickets, sipped tea wearing one of Paul’s tee shirts,
fresh clean, it smelled like him despite the washing. I loved my husband...that was the
bottom line, to use an American expression, and everything would be all right.
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