Claire Thompson - Tracy in chains

She tried to hold him with her mouth, since her hands were chained above her head, but Paul pulled away, intent on the whipping he had promised her. It began slowly at first, as he had said it would. The soft tresses of leather grazed her ass and thighs, the tempo and thrust increasing as the whipping continued.

Tracy was quiet at first, deeply excited, proud of herself that she could 'take a whipping' like this with so little effort. Gauging her reaction, deciding she was ready for more, Paul let the lash land on her back, striking her with some force, so that red marks appeared where the leather had kissed her.

Tracy jerked and screamed. Her breathing was staccato as she began to dance that timeless rhythm of one who can't escape the lash. Paul didn't let up, but continued to whip her rather severely, up and down from the top of her back to her thighs, covering her now sweating form with a crisscross of red angry lines.

Tracy's soft cries and whimpers were a constant in the room now, as Paul mercilessly beat his slave girl. He only stopped because his own need to take her overwhelmed his sadistic pleasure in making her suffer.

Quickly he released the clips and caught Tracy as she fell in his arms. He carried her to the bed, but not to tenderly minister to her burning flesh. No, he carried her there to claim her completely.

Roughly positioning her, forcing her onto her hands and knees, he knelt behind her and pressed his hard cock into her sopping pussy, fueled by her whimpers and cries. "It's your fault," he whispered fiercely into her ear, as he fucked her hard, holding her hips so he could thrust deeply into her. "You're so beautiful, I had to whip you. And then I had to stop, because you're so beautiful. Oh God, Tracy. I love you!"

Tracy had been writhing under him, arching back into him, her skin on fire from the beating, her pussy inflamed with need for the only man who had ever tapped into the essence of her. She had been whimpering, not from pain, but with a kind of animal yearning for her lover and what he was doing to her, but she heard his words. She heard him say he loved her.

Neither of them had ever said that to the other. Neither had dared. Tracy felt her heart expand and something tightly wound inside her released itself at that moment, leaving her free to fully give of herself, perhaps for the first time in her life.

"I have something for you, if you want it." Paul said, enigmatically. They were lying in the rumpled motel bed, eating strawberries and idly talking about nothing in particular. They were both naked and Tracy was nestled comfortably in the crook of Paul's arm.

Tracy looked at him expectantly and he continued. "It's a collar. A chain. I want to claim you in a physical way, a way you'll always remember. I want to do a lot of things. I want to permanently mark you one day." Tracy thrilled at this, but stayed quiet, waiting.

"But for today, if you'll have it, I have a little present. It's symbolic really, of ownership. Of claiming you." As he spoke, Paul gently disentangled himself from Tracy and went to his bag. He took out a long blue velvet jewelry box and solemnly handed it to Tracy.

Smiling hugely, she opened it and exclaimed, "Oh, Paul! It's lovely."

"It looks like a necklace, but it's a collar. A permanent collar, Tracy. Once you put it on, it can't be removed without a special jeweler's tool. I want you in chains. I want you bound to me, and this little piece of silver would be a symbolic gesture on your part that you accept, willingly accept, your own slavery and servitude to me. Do you want that, darling?"

Paul waited, very still, and Tracy knew her answer meant a lot to him, that he had no preconceived notion of what it might be. Quietly she said, her voice low and sure, "Yes, Paul. Yes, my love. I want that more than anything in the world." With a simple gesture, Tracy lifted the hair off her neck and bent gracefully toward him, offering herself.

Paul slipped the slender silver necklace around her throat, releasing the spring catch that would render it permanent. Tracy sat back, laughing happily, her eyes glinting as she knelt at Paul's belly and took his lovely cock into her mouth, teasing it back to life. Just who was enslaved at that moment was hard to say.

Snow was drifting softly against the window outside Paul's Manhattan apartment. Thirty stories up, no one could see in to a sight that would surely have shocked them.

A naked young woman was bent over, straddling a sturdy wooden sawhorse. She was bound, at the wrists and ankles, with much used soft leather cuffs, clipped to stout eyehooks embedded in the wood. In her mouth was a bright red ball gag like one she had seen months ago, in her former life. It seemed like eons ago.

Her pussy, which rested bare against the smooth wood, was stuffed with a rather large flesh colored dildo that was operated by a remote controlled battery. In her ass there was a medium sized butt plug, significantly bigger than the one she had purchased for herself and timidly inserted on her own those many months ago.

This one had been inserted by her lover, as she bent over, her own hands holding open her butt cheeks while the color sprang up her neck and cheeks in a hot, rosy rush. Everything to do with her bottom seemed to embarrass Tracy unduly, but Paul worked with her to desensitize her and help her get over what he called her ridiculous shyness.

"There is no modesty, no hesitation, for a slave girl to her master. That is an essential lesson, darling. You refuse me nothing. The word 'no' is not in your vocabulary. I own you, plain and simple, and as such, I will do with you as I please. I also love you, however, and would never betray the total trust you must have in me."

How different from her relationship with Kyle, though on the surface there might seem to be similarities. Kyle had certainly been the 'dominant' one in their relationship – it was his opinions, his taste in art and music, his moods to go out or stay in – that dictated their lives together. Tracy had been complaisant in the arrangement, allowing, even encouraging his control, because of her misplaced admiration for him and her own secret sense of worthlessness.

She and Paul were truly friends, partners and lovers – consensual giving partners who both relished their respective roles as sub and Dom and cherished each other. Kyle had been an extension of her parents – withholding, aloof, supremely confident of his abilities, and always questioning, or being indifferent to hers.

Tracy learned to fade into the background. It was safer, especially when her stepfather was drunk and looking for someone to bully. There were many nights, when he came home drunk and flipped on Tracy's bedroom light, jerking her from sleep, to rage at her for failing, yet again, to clean something to his specifications.

If the dishes hadn't been loaded into the dishwasher, she would be forced to get up and do them at once. If they were neatly loaded and the floor carefully swept, then the cabinets needed washing down, or the trash had been placed too close to the house. Tracy had learned never to look to her mother for support during these episodes. Her mother would vanish, leaving Tracy to bear the brunt of her husband's insanity.

Perhaps that was why she kept her own home obsessively clean – some subconscious fear that her stepfather would appear and wrench her from her bed, holding her arm so tightly it left bruises the next day.

That was precisely why Paul didn't allow Tracy to do a thing in his apartment. He knew her history, though he rarely referred to it. In his home, for once in her life, Paul was determined she should be treated like a princess.

It had made her very uncomfortable at first, as she was so used to being sole caretaker of the home and had actually come to believe it was 'women's work.' Paul continued to refuse her, gently removing a dish towel from her hand if she tried to wipe down the counter, whisking the dishes from her hand if she went to clear them.