CHAPTER 1

 

Her feet were on fire.

There was no other way to describe the feeling. It was as if she were standing on red-hot coals. She moaned softly and tried again to hang by her neck to relieve the agony; in seconds, she passed out then jerked awake in a horrible panic. She tried lifting one foot and then the other; it didn't work; the bizarre dance just doubled the pain in her down foot. She grimaced unseen-there was no avoiding this pain; all she could do was suffer as he intended.

The intensity of her will-to-live surprised her though; she had always been so blasé about danger, so indifferent about life and death... That was bravado, trash-talk, she thought with sudden clarity-a mask used give the impression that of being carefree, a wild spirit with no fear. It wasn't true; she wanted to live!

He knew that; somehow, he knew that she would endure, that she would never give up.

The realization that she would suffer until dead scared her. She tried to scream, but the ball gag allowed only a gargled squeak. She could feel a new rivulet of drool coursing down between her breasts and collecting in her belly button then overflowing to run through her wet labia onto her legs.

The pain was intensifying her sense of touch ... all her senses. Strange, she thought, she had always assumed that pain numbed the senses, but it appeared that just the opposite was true. Her eyes opened wide and she tried to see through the blackness; she stopped moaning and listened for a sound.

Nothing...

She had never known such utter silence, never experienced such total darkness. Growing up in New York City, there was always some distant noise, some faint point of light to hold onto, to keep from drifting. This fucking closet had neither; it was as if she was floating in a coffin filled with black ink. She was drowning in its oily blackness.

She tried to scream again and heard the same strangled sound as before.

A wave of terror suddenly swept through her body; pure unadulterated terror mixed with a hint of excitement. Excitement...? Was he going to let her die in here? Was she going to strangle, hang herself on this fucking rope? She remembered having the same feeling of panicked exhilaration when she and Blair had ridden the Tower of Terror at Disneyworld. There had been no pain then and no bondage, but it was the same feeling.

Max had told her it would be an experience she would never forget. He was right.

Max... That bastard was responsible for this! He was the cause of this torture, the architect of her fear, of her suffering. She would leave him for this if ... if she survived. She would walk out and never come back...

Lie...!

She was not going to leave him. She loved him; they loved each other! This had not been his idea; it was hers. She had always wanted to try bondage, to understand what it was about, to see for herself if the hype was true. She wanted to feel the helplessness the anti-joy of being dominated. She wasn't going to leave him.

She had never had a boyfriend or lover she trusted enough for ... to do this with before him. Max was different-he was a kind man-gentle and attentive-always interested in what she was thinking, in her feelings, her desires. Max was the epitome of a doting Latin lover.

They had met at a party thrown by her airline. He had walked up to her and bowed then held out his hand to dance. "May I, señorita?" He had literally swept her off her feet in that first dance. Every minute with him after had been filled with laughter and the thrill of head-over-heels love. They were soulmates, star-crossed lovers destined to be together.

...And she was the one who had suggested a "BDSM night" to him.

They had been sparring with each other for a while over the subject-making veiled suggestions, exchanging playful jabs about the other's meekness, openly discussing the idea that light bondage and discipline were, in some form, a part of every modern relationship. They were in love; submission and domination were not forbidden subjects, they were the underlying themes of their love life, their relationship, their future. It was only natural that when she was fully convinced that their love was genuine and unique that she pushed him to agree to "the next step," to an "even greater intimacy."

She was so sure that he was a novice like her. She thought their experimentation would be fun, a voyage of discovery for them both. She had been wrong; he was no novice. She began to suspect as much when he insisted that if he consented, that she agree to a no-holds-barred "BDSM evening."

"Either we are all in or not, Jodie. I am too old to play games."

He was not too old to play games, he was only in his early forties, but she understood his point. He was a serious person, a cabinet minister. Even though it was only sex play, he didn't want it to deteriorate into silliness. Max was the most serious and intense man she had ever known; he could be light and have fun, he made her laugh all the time, but he was never silly.

"Okay," she remembered saying, "but don't hurt me too badly. We are new to this, let's go slowly, okay?"

He had nodded his head then smiled as if she had hurt his feelings with the caveat.

"Okay, okay, I trust you, Max. Just don't make me cry. I would hate to cry in front of you..."

"That's what it means to be in love, Jodie," he said, touching her face. "We can cry in front of each other..."

It was a corny line, but she had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Right up to the time he ordered her to stand then tied her arms tightly behind in what he called a "slave square" she thought he was as inexperienced as she. He had told her to fold her arms behind and used a soft silky rope-which appeared from nowhere-to bind her wrists to her forearms, circle her elbows, and lock them in place against her chest. The tie compressed her lungs and made her breathe in short gasps. It felt like she was, well, helpless.

"Where did you learn to do this...?" she asked hesitantly.

He didn't answer.

"It's really tight, Max. Could you..."

The red ball gag appeared from nowhere (like the rope). Before she could object it was in her mouth and strapped behind her neck. Suddenly, she was unable to communicate, unable to exercise any control.

Roughly, he stripped off her sneakers, jeans, and panties then used a scissors to cut off her shirt. It was an old thing she wore to knock around his apartment, but still it was hers. She didn't bother to wear a bra in the apartment; her tits were high and firm. She only wore a bra outside to hide her nipples. They were large and showed through most fabrics, including the silk shirt of her flight attendant uniform.

"You need some time to think, Jodie," he whispered in her ear, "...Some time to understand the nature of your submissiveness, to appreciate what it means to be helpless and in pain."

She shook her head as he guided her to the closet in the never-used guest room. It was empty ... sterile. She shook her head no, again, her incredible bedroom eyes wide with fear. He ignored her protest as he tied a noose around her neck, pushed her inside under the clothes bar, and lifted her to her toes.

"This is not a hangman's noose," he explained evenly. "The knot won't slip down and tighten, but it will stop you from breathing and cut off blood to your brain when you lower yourself, when you get off your toes."

She stared at him in disbelief as he leaned inside and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'll come back for you, mi amor, when I am ready to administer your punishment."

Punishment...? What had she done that...?

The door had closed with the same airtight finality as a coffin lid. This was the moment when she knew for sure he had fooled her. This was no ordinary closet; it was a soundproof box, a punishment box, proof that he had done this before.

 

***

 

She had no idea how long her lover left her "to think," but when he returned, to her great shame and surprise, she cried, whimpering like a sorrowful and contrite pet. He seemed strangely unaffected by her atypical show of emotion. Before this, the only time she really expressed her deep feelings was in bed, during sex.

"Are you ready, Jodie ... to be punished?"

This was no rhetorical question. He was waiting for an answer. She stared at him with tears in her eyes, unable to focus on anything except the agony in her feet. Her eyes begged for release, but he ignored them, waiting... Somehow, she knew he would close the door on her if she didn't play the game out to its conclusion.

How had her perfect lover turned into such a cruel monster?

Slowly, she nodded and sighed gratefully (gratefully...!) when he reached inside and untied the noose. She fell heavily into his arms, exhausted; he held her naked body close in an embrace for a while then lifted her in his arms and carried her to the sofa.

It was an old-fashioned loveseat with enormous flared arms and a fleur de lis pattern sewn into its silk upholstery. It was an antique, undoubtedly worth tens of thousands, like all the other pieces in his apartment.

"I hope you learned something in the closet, Jodie. I hope you now understand more about the ... about the awesome nature of submission, about the potential..."

She sat up higher on the loveseat staring at him, daring him with her eyes to do anything more to her. What "potential...?"

"It's almost time for your punishment. I think you are going to find it just as revealing as the closet."

She shook her head and tried to speak through the gag. This has gone too far, her eyes screamed. Yes, she had agreed to be "all in," but he was carrying this way too far. So stop...! Stop right this instant. She knew he understood, he just chose to ignore her.

He opened the draw of the 18th Century pedestal end table next to the loveseat. Underneath, in the cavity under the draw, was a strange looking paddle, about two inches wide and 15 inches long, with a slit in the middle. She could feel goose bumps appearing on her mocha-colored skin.

"It's called a tawse," he said reverently, "but most people through the ages have just referred to it as 'the strap.' It was used for centuries in Scottish schools to discipline unruly children, both boys and girls. Sometimes, for minor offenses they did it through-the-cloth; sometimes, for boys and girls, it was done bare-skinned on a naked ass."

He ran his hand lovingly along the thick leather which was stained from years of use.

"Can you imagine the fear ... sitting outside the head-master's office, waiting to hear if your punishment was going to be through-the-cloth or bare-skinned."

He slapped the leather down on his bare palm. She could almost hear the pain in its sweat stained leather, imagine the terror of its victim, bent over a desk.

"Getting the leather and the slits just right is an art. English schools mostly used a cane which can leave marks on bare skin, but the Scots preferred the tawse. This one is an antique my agent found in an estate sale. It was used right up to the end, to 2001 when the tawse was banned in Scottish schools.

"This was a mistake in my opinion. Corporal punishment is part of who we are. Without it, we are neutered, moderated but not in a good way."

He was lost in thought. She pulled her bare legs up onto the seat trying to hide her private parts, trying to protect her naked body. She was scared now, frightened; not so much of him as his ideas. She thought about how to stop him-the offer of sex perhaps? Was she willing to trade sex for his pardon, for his favor; wasn't that the essence of prostitution?

"You know you deserve this, Jodie. You know the things you have done; the sexual things you have done with your mouth; the things you have asked me to do to your ass. No decent girl does those kinds of things and escapes punishment. How would society maintain its propriety if it didn't punish such behavior? Isn't that right?"

She stared at him wide-eyed. What was he talking about...? It didn't matter, all that mattered was that he was going to whip her with that thing ... whip her! No one had ever laid a hand on her, ever, and now she was about to be whipped.

He stood up and slowly undressed then he sat again.

"Ready...?"

She shook her head violently so there was no mistaking her message, her long layered hair flying in all directions. He smiled then lifted her to sit on his lap. Without rushing, he began to kiss her neck as his hands fondled her tits and nipples. Her hands were still tied behind in the slave square and her mouth was still full of the gag, but she responded with her undulating body. Her fear had driven her passion to new heights, but it was okay, more than okay....

Her panic dissipated as her passion increased. It was clear now that his talk of punishment and tawsing was just talk, something to get her juices flowing.

There was something very hot about being naked and bound on a man's lap. The threat of punishment had aroused her in a way that she had never been aroused before. That's all it was-a threat; he would never...

She was grinding her naked ass into his crotch, turned on by the way in which he had dominated her, by the closet, by the threat of the strap-what had he called it-the tawse. She knew he loved her too much to...

Suddenly, he turned her over one knee and used his other leg to hold her in place. With her arms tied behind and her torso face down on the silk, she had nowhere to go. No amount of struggle was going to free her. She twisted her head back and stared up into his eyes. He was breathing hard, panting the way a wild animal would with his prey in his jaws, aroused by the thought of ... her pain.

The first few strokes of the tawse didn't hurt that badly. She could feel the strap's slit taking a long bite of her bare skin, like a whip would do, but it wasn't terrible. In fact, it was continuing to arouse her, especially when he ran his hand over her bare skin after every few strokes. She could feel the bare hand of his hand on her labia which was peeking out from between her legs. It was going to be okay. More than okay, she was feeling things she had never felt before.

The first real pain came when she had calmed and was beginning to move her body again. Each stroke now made her jerk in burning agony. In five minutes, she was screaming into the gag, in ten she was delirious with the pain, her entire body shaking in pain and...

At once, he lifted her upright. She was lightheaded but felt her legs bending, fitting into the channels on either side of his lap. Slowly, he lowered her onto his cock, impaling her on the long shaft. She fell into a faint of some kind; all she could think about was the burning pain in her ass and the hard cock in her vagina, driven inside so deeply that she imagined it was coming up through her throat.

Without conscious thought, she began to move, to fuck him, lifting herself with her legs, coordinating her movements with his growing thrusts. In seconds, they were moving together like a well-oiled piston. She lost all sense of time and place and her higher intellectual functions shut down as her primitive brain assumed control.

She had no idea how long they fucked. The first thing she remembered was the scream. She tried to stop when she realized it was coming from her, but she could not. The contractions were too powerful, too all-consuming to simply stop. She could feel his body under hers, his muscles hard as stone. He was in the throes of massive contractions. She had never felt anything like this before.

When the contractions finished; he untied her arms and carried her to his bed where she slept like the dead until first light. He made coffee as she showered and dressed and kissed her goodbye at the door. It was as if the night before had never happened, as if it was a dream. She knew it was no dream, but she had no words to discuss it, to describe what she had felt-both good and bad. Somehow, she knew that the good and bad feelings were the two sides of the same coin.