Selena Kitt - Katie and the Dom

It was Mr. Thomas Dunn, in the library, with the book. Her best friend, Lori, kept saying. “If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t have this stupid bee in your bonnet about this whole BDSM thing!” and she was probably right. It was quiet, polite, balding and bespectacled Mr. Dunn coming into her library looking for “ The Erotic Bondage Handbook ” who had created an itch she couldn’t quite scratch, who had set her, unwittingly, down this very path, a long and winding road that now ended with Katie sobbing uncontrollably, naked, on her knees, and choking on a ball-gag.

Katie learned everything from books-she always had. She supposed most librarians did. So while it started with her own copy of “ The Erotic Bondage Handbook,” it didn’t end there. She moved on to more titillating fare quite quickly, from Anne Rice’s novels, written under a pseudonym, of course-there was always an air of the obscene about the topic, no matter where she turned-to “The Story of O.”

She couldn’t seem to get enough of the commanding Doms, the bright red spankings, the maddening restraints and there was something about the allure of a flogger that promised to sting like bees and fall like rain on the tender, untouched terrain of her pale white flesh that left her breathless and desperate, twisted in her sheets at night, crying out with longing.

And then she started going to the BDSM Internet sites. At first it was just to glean information, and then, she had to admit, to meet people. Maybe there was someone out there, someone local, who might be interested in teaching her? Because more than anything, Katie wanted to learn. She wanted to be the one on her knees in front of her master, following his lead, giving herself over completely to his desires.

Well she’d gotten what she wanted, and as Lori, from whose mouth dripped the most tried and true cliches, had warned before she went to meet Patrick for this first-ever play-date, “You should be careful what you wish for!” Lori was also full of stories about serial killers who posted ads on Craiglist just like Patrick’s, psychos looking for their next eager, willing victim. Lori had been sure that Katie was doing this at her own peril.

And Lori had turned out to be absolutely correct.

Once Katie was naked and shackled and gagged, she’d discovered something she didn’t expect-she was afraid. This man wasn’t a psycho. He’d made her sign an agreement, they’d negotiated a safeword and limits, they’d worked out the scene, just exactly what he would do to and for her. She knew she was taking some risks. She was, after all, in his basement, in a soundproof, padded room-but it was a nice, suburban house with a picket fence for god’s sake! And Lori knew where she was and why she had come. She had safeguards.

So why was she trembling with fear?

As Patrick plucked equipment off the wall-a crop, a flogger, things they’d discussed-she suddenly realized her mistake. She didn’t trust him. For whatever reason, she didn’t trust this man to take her where she needed to go. In fact, she was quite sure that he couldn’t, that this, whatever it was they were playing at, was wrong. After all her anticipation and dreaming about this moment, she knew, as Lori would say, “with every fiber of her being,” that she needed to stop.

She knew her safeword-she’d had it in her head for months and had told Patrick what she wanted to use-but she couldn’t say it because the red ball gag in her mouth made her effectively silent. He’d given her clear instructions though on how to “tap out” if she was gagged-three short taps on the mat and the scene would end. Except her hands were restrained above her head. And she was sure Patrick hadn’t anticipated her wanting to end things before they even really began!

Patrick turned toward her, tall and lanky, a handsome specimen of man in his snakeskin boots and leather pants, his shirtless chest smooth, his belly flat and ridged with muscle. There wasn’t a thing in the world wrong with him. She liked him a great deal, in fact, had since the beginning, or she wouldn’t have agreed to any of this in the first place.

You’re just being stupid. She tried to reason herself out of her fear. It’s butterflies, that’s all.

Except some part of her knew it wasn’t.

She’d read an article on one of those endless BDSM sites she’d perused over the past year written by a submissive waiting for “the one.” It was about the woman’s experiences, going to clubs, doing scenes, all the while feeling unfulfilled, because even if it was pleasurable, even if each Dom took her just where she wanted to go, it all felt empty because she hadn’t found “the one.” And of course, the end to the tale was how she felt when it finally was right, when she found “the one” and they lived happily ever after.

And as much as Katie had tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew that Patrick wasn’t “the one” and anything they did together was going to leave her feeling just the same-hollow and unsated. There had to be a way out of this. Katie tried to speak but the gag did its job quite well, trapping her tongue, making anything but grunting impossible. Besides, Patrick’s gaze was on her body, not her face. She felt the heat of it, the way he looked at her breasts, his eyes dipping to the dark triangle of hair between her thighs.

She tried again, but Patrick was focused on the crop in his hand, trailing it over her shoulder and down to her breast. The “scene” had started and Katie found herself desperate to end it. Now. Right now. Even as the crop flicked over her nipple and her body responded, her pussy clenching with lust-she’d been fantasizing about this for so long, so very long. Yet here she was, and she couldn’t go through with it, in spite of the way her other nipple hardened when the crop found that one too.

Katie tried again, determined now to communicate her wishes, looking at Patrick, desperately seeking eye contact, but he seemed transfixed by the sight of her, bound and gagged on her knees, lost in the path his crop was taking down her belly. She grunted, pulling at the restraints above her head, feeling her body sway from side to side.

“Shhh,” Patrick insisted, flicking the crop lightly but quite soundly against her hip. The sting was incredible and brought tears to her eyes. And once the tears came to the surface, well, that was it. It was over. There was no stopping them. Her chest hitched as she began to cry and she grunted again, trying to say the safeword, over and over, but Patrick’s crop was parting her pussy lips and he was licking his own in anticipation.

She had never felt so vulnerable and exposed, tears streaming down her face, falling from her quivering chin in droplets onto her bare breasts. She could barely catch a breath now let alone try to speak or communicate and, oh god, there was snot running down her face too, just to make her humiliation complete. She hung her head, giving up, giving in, wondering if this was what surrender felt like-hopeless, powerless, helpless. If this was it, she didn’t want any part of it.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

Katie looked up at the booming sound of an unfamiliar voice. The man who appeared was like a bigger-than-life version of Patrick-the same dark hair and eyes, the same broad forehead and full mouth, but he was twice the other man’s size, his body literally filling all available space in the doorway.

Patrick straightened, frowning, taking a step backward from both her and the looming figure. “I’m… wait, what are you doing? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Did this woman give her consent?” The man stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving Katie. He knelt by her side and the moment his hands reached for her gag, she felt her body relax, the restraints holding her arms up going taut, taking her weight.