Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“Here,” he said, holding out the two fifties he had gotten from the bank.

“Make yourself comfortable first,” she said, and disappeared into the other room with the dog.

He was in a box of a room, the windows cut off by a wooden platform set six and a half feet off the ground. Behind him, facing the front door, was a black leather table with stainless-steel legs that seemed adjustable. Hanging toward the upper half on each side were leather bracelets attached to the table by chains, supposedly for binding the wrists. He got out of his clothes quickly. He was eager for her return. She was dressed, as in the commercial, in a black leather skirt, binding her ass and thighs tight, a row of steel snaps running up to her crotch. Her top was more demure than in the ads: a simple black silk blouse. Her hair was long, and a fierce dark red, her face big, angular, her hands large, her fingernails long and painted crimson. She wore high heels and black net stockings which, combined with the tight skirt, made her walk slow and arrogant.

She appeared from behind the closed door, peering out, seeing him naked, and then entering briskly, taking the two fifties from him. “Sit on the couch,” she said, gesturing toward a small white couch against the rear wall below the windows and underneath the wooden platform.

He moved there dutifully and she disappeared again into the back room with the money. He looked to his left at an extension of the wood platform that came down one wall with wood pegs on which hung a variety of S/M devices— long riding crops, studded leather collars, whips, handcuffs — a complete collection. He took a breath and felt it cool and uneasy in his chest. He was timidly excited, wanting more and fearing it all. Seated nude on the couch he felt like a boy in an examining room, assured that nothing painful would happen, but suspecting everything.

She entered again, her heels slowly and firmly sounding harsh on the floor. “This is our first experience,” she said, barely making it a question.

“Yes.”

“But not your first experience with dominance?”

“Yes.”

She raised an expressively painted eyebrow and smiled. “Oh, a virgin! How delightful!” She gestured to a bottle of brandy on the small white table. “Would you like some brandy?”

“No thanks,” he said. He wanted to make sure he went through this without any other stimulation. Already, from her rapacious approval of his status as a neophyte, he felt a tingle of excitement.

She went to the bottle, opened it, and poured herself a glass. “Do you have any particular fetishes or repulsions?”

David cleared his throat. “I, uh …” He tried to unblock his voice again. “I want to be aroused, and then punished for it. I have a fantasy that I’m being stroked, my penis is being stroked with one hand, and with the other I’m being spanked for enjoying—”

“Oh, that’s hot,” she said, again with a witch’s relish of evil. He assumed she approved of any program a client laid out, that this wasn’t true pleasure, but he was excited anyway, immensely relieved that she would fulfill his desire.

“Not hard, though,” he hurried to say. “I don’t think I’m into any real pain. It’s all pretty psychological.”

“Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect you to be into pain.” She sipped her brandy. She smiled, a thin, bitter, mocking sneer. “Yet,” she snapped. “Have you ever fantasized about anal penetration or worship?”

“No,” he said very quickly, scared.

“All right,” she said soothingly. “Anything else?”

He shook his head. She put her glass down and spoke in a clipped voice: “Stand up there”—she pointed to a spot in front of the wall of devices. He did so and noticed two metal cuffs attached to the bottom of the wooden platform above him, and then saw two round metal “eyes” bolted to the floor below them, presumably for spread-eagling. “Look straight ahead at all times,” she said, moving in front of him and fiddling in a drawer at a table he hadn’t noticed that was underneath the wall of objects. “You will address me as mistress. You will speak only when spoken to, except to tell me if something is too painful. If you feel you are about to come …” She turned back to him and suddenly he felt her touch his balls, and then there was a mild tug. He looked down and saw she was tying a white rope around his testicles and the base of his already semierect penis. “Tell me if this is too tight,” she commented as she knotted it. The effect was to bunch his genitals together, keeping the penis thrust forward. “If you are about to come, say, ‘Mistress, I am going to come,’ so that we can stop that. Orgasm is boring,” she finished, speaking right into his face. He felt the warm stale breath of brandy, and smelled her perfume: sweet, overpowering, infiltrating his “nostrils. “Put your hands behind your back.” He did, imitating the man he had seen on television. “Good,” she said. “Do you understand everything I told you?”

“Yes … “he said in a whisper.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good. Don’t force me to punish you.” She moved at him, pressing her body absolutely flat against his, running her hands down his back — he felt the sharp edges of her nails just barely, enough to know they were there without any hurt — and then squeezed his buttocks, pushing his groin at her. “Today we don’t want to punish. We’re going to play the Queen Spider and the Fly. The queen is going to suck all your liquid. She wants all of you. And you’re going to give her everything.” A pause.

She smacked him on the ass.

“Yes, Mistress,” he answered quickly.

“Good,” she purred. “I don’t want you to enjoy this. If you become aroused, I’ll have to spank you.” She moved away and her fingers lightly held his penis. “You would look pretty in women’s clothes. Have you ever fantasized about dressing up?”

“No.”

She pressed against him, reaching behind, and smacked him on a buttock. “No what?”

“No, Mistress.”

“That’s better. You have to learn to please me, slave. That’s what you’re here for. For my pleasure. Do you understand?” She was hugging him, her long hair in his face, the perfume smothering him, her hands running over his back, her nails possessing him as they lighted on his body. He was an object. A helpless thing.

“Yes, Mistress.”

A smack. “Say it with a little enthusiasm, slave.”

“Yes! Mistress.” The slaps on his ass didn’t hurt at all.

“You want to worship me, don’t you?” she insinuated in his ear.

“Yes, Mistress,” he heard a strange version of his voice. “You are beautiful. Mistress. I want to worship your ass, mistress.”

She stepped back and he felt his whole groin pulled. She had him by the ridge of hair above his penis. He stood on his tiptoes to reduce the tension. She spat her words at his face, an inch from his mouth: “You don’t tell me what you want! That’s for before we begin. If you do that again, I’ll slap you across the face and beat your ass until it’s bloody. I enjoy doing that. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he babbled. “I’m sorry. I understand, Mistress.”

She let his pubic hair go. She looked pleased. “Good.” She sat down on the couch. “Put yourself across my knees. I’m going to have to spank you.”

So it was real — she really did rule. He was hard down there, evidently enjoying it. He laid himself over her lap.

“Keep your legs spread,” she said, a finger touching the base of his testicles, “so I can stroke your balls if you deserve it.”

She slapped one buttock. He didn’t feel it. “You’re hard! You’re not enjoying this, are you?” She slapped his other buttock. “Answer me!”