Claire Thompson - Tracy in chains

Testing Tracy's self-proclaimed desire to submit to him, to obey him at this party and do exactly what he told her, Paul gave her this order and waited to see what she would do. He watched her as she bit her lip, resisting her first impulse to refuse, to protest, to keep her modesty.

She looked into his eyes, and, a determined expression on her face, she slowly unbuttoned the blouse, revealing her luscious round breasts with their dark pink tips, all ready to feel the bite of his clamps.

Paul was very pleased with her obedience. He clipped first one and then the other little torture device to her sensitive nipples, as she hissed her acknowledgement of the bite. "Now go get us some coffee," he said, sitting back to watch the action.

Tracy did as he said, her face burning, but utterly determined to obey. She slid gracefully from him on her high heels, no longer wobbling as she had done so long ago in that horrible motel room where Guy had had her wear imitation ill-fitting patent leather stilettos. These shoes tonight were of the softest leather and fit her feet perfectly. She and Paul had shopped for quite a while to find just the right shoes.

Her long lean legs looked even longer in those 5" heels, and many pairs of eyes followed her appreciatively, as she made her way to the coffee bar. Leaning forward a little to add the cream, Tracy suddenly found herself in front of a short young man whose eyes were exactly level to her bare and chained breasts.

He seemed unsteady on his feet for a moment, as if he were actually going to fall against her, his head landing between her breasts. Stammering something to her, he blushed crimson and sputtered to a stop. She literally didn't understand a word he said, hearing only, "hummina, hummina, hummina," like some modern day Ralph Cramden, at a total loss for words.

The experience amused her, and made her relax more. When she'd first entered the party, it had seemed like a gathering of the 'beautiful people' from some dark Gothic S amp;M dream – all long limbs and leather and chains. Here was just a regular Joe, as nervous as she was, and as unhinged by the nudity and chains as she would have been without Paul at her side.

She realized she liked being exposed! She felt proud of her body for the first time, and actually stuck out her chest a little as she wended her way back to Paul, coffee cups carefully balanced in each hand.

Paul had observed the whole thing, smiling widely as she returned. He teased her, "What a slut! Sticking your tits in that poor bastard's face! I should give you to him for the night, for leading him on like that!"

Tracy felt her own cheeks turn rosy from his teasing, but she wasn't displeased. She became serious and asked, "You would actually give me to someone? Like Emmanuel?" (They'd rented the movies.)

"Of course I would, Tracy. If that's what I wanted to do. Do you have a problem with that?"

"I – I don't know, Paul. I mean, without you…" Tracy trailed off, confused. She had promised in theory to do whatever Paul commanded of her, sexually, and that included giving her body to whomever he chose. Somehow, in her mind's eye, Paul would always be there with her.

"I don't, though," he added, smiling. "Right now, I can't envision giving you to someone else without me being there. We will probably play with others, Tracy, when we feel ready, but right now I can't imagine wanting you to be somewhere I'm not, especially not in the arms of another man!"

Here in his apartment, he watched his lover swaying gracefully, her eyes shining. He wanted her so badly he couldn't wait another second. "Get on your hands and knees; I want your ass," he ordered, his voice hoarse with pent up need.

Tracy crouched as ordered, suppressing a little sigh. She desperately wanted to feel his gorgeous, hard cock thrusting into her pussy. She longed to buck and wriggle against it, to feel her own rising orgasm as he held her hips and used her body.

She didn't ask. These weeks had taught her that much at least. She didn't ask for her own needs to be met, or what she perceived to be her needs. Paul determined what her needs were, sexually speaking, and Paul decided if she was going to come, when and how, and even with whom, though so far it had only been with him.

"It isn't about you," he would say to her, as he did what he pleased. On one level she understood what he meant. As the submissive, the 'bottom', she theoretically existed solely for his, the Dom's, pleasure. Her orgasms were incidental, or if not incidental, entirely at his whim.

On another level she knew what he said wasn't entirely true. They didn't share the black and white world of Dom and sub, Master and slave, that was outlined so carefully in the many articles she had read on the subject, and were debated endlessly in the chat rooms by supposed authorities.

Into that heady mix of sadistic sexual torture and submissive yielding, was thrown in the most important piece of the equation. The piece that was missing from so many of the articles and explanations she had garnered in her limited surfing – love.

Paul was so obviously and so hopelessly in love with her that, of course, her pleasure was paramount to him. He understood that her pleasure transcended mere self-indulgent physical satisfaction. Her pleasure truly did derive in part from serving him, from suffering for him, from denying herself for him, from pleasing him.

It was as if they were two parts of a puzzle that had been made and then broken apart long ago, and now they were together, the various jagged and sometimes broken parts of them fitting together in a perfect, smooth whole.

It didn't imply that 'one completed the other' or that they couldn't have done just fine without each other. As Paul was fond of saying, "We don't need each other. We don'tneed anyone, really. No adult does, but isn't it wonderful how much we want each other?"

It still surprised her that he didn't want to alter her. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in her. In fact, nobody in her life had been so supremely interested in her just as she was, but Paul's interest didn't seem to lead on to a desire to mold and modify.

Paul expected people would respect his space, his boundaries, and was prepared to grant the same to other people. He allowed them to come to their own conclusions, by their own routes, down their own pathways. It frightened Tracy at first; this having to think for herself, but in the end, it freed her, giving her the courage to explore her own feelings with more honesty than before. It allowed her, as trite as it sounded, to grow up.

Now she knelt on hands and knees, sinking into the soft down, her ass and thighs a crisscross of fire, her pussy soaked and twitching, her little nether opening being smeared with lubricant by her lover, who would, in a moment, order her to spread her cheeks for him.

The first time he had told her to do that, Tracy had resisted. When she finally obeyed, her face was the color of beets as she imagined him critically examining her puckered little asshole.

In fact, the physical act of holding her cheeks apart didn't allow her to tense her anal muscles nearly as much, and entry was markedly less painful than it might have been. Now she was waiting for his command to grab her ass, as she felt his warm strong body crouching behind her.

A moan of feral pleasure was wrenched from Tracy when Paul surprised her by entering her pussy, lifting her slightly at her hips to give himself better access. The unexpected but delicious invasion unhinged Tracy, who was already emotionally and physically extended from the lengthy and difficult bondage, and the virgin caning.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she gushed, the words a constant litany as she arched in feline pleasure against his body.

"Shh, stop that. Don't thank me, silly. Hush. I'm doing what I want. You know that. I only do what I want." Tracy ignored him, bucking and pushing, seizing the moment before he withdrew, to steal her own desperately needed release.