Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper
“Why are you making me do this?”
They sat together in His BMW, the room number on the motel door at the head of their parking spot looming in the center of her vision. It held her stare as if she were a small bird, and it, a serpent.
He did not answer her question, and she could hear how her words hung in the air. She hated herself for how whiny she had sounded. So needy for His approval that she would come here with Him, for this. What was wrong with her?
She pulled her eyes away from the motel door and turned sideways in the black leather seat to look at Him. Her round bottom, naked and panty-less under her very short, plaid schoolgirl skirt, squeaked on the smooth hide as she moved. Her bare arms in the sleeveless, too-small white blouse goose-pimpled, even though He had set the car’s efficient heater on high.
Her small, pale hand found the cabled muscle in His forearm, and she gripped, her burgundy-painted nails digging into the fabric of His crisp dress shirt.
“Master,” she whispered.
He looked at her now, His dark green eyes scything through her as they always did. No matter how many times she met His gaze, it never failed to frighten her. Or arouse her; she felt herself grow damp, and wished again she had disobeyed Him and brought a towel to sit on. But He’d forbidden it. And He’d forbidden her to soil His car seat, or He would punish her. She didn’t know how she was supposed to obey such contradictory commands.
But He was like that. And for some reason, she always told Him, “Yes, Master.” Not because He wanted her to, or would punish her if she disobeyed, but because from deep inside her would come a little voice that would not let her demur. A voice that, despite her occasional attempts to thwart and ignore, would in the end win out. Sometimes she felt like two different people. On a good day.
He drilled her with that stare, and now she felt her small braless nipples tighten against the tight cotton fabric of the blouse. The way He looked in that suit… He wore a suit everyday when He went off to work, but for some reason, now, it had an entirely different meaning. And He’d put on His most expensive suit today for their outing, His Brioni. In black, of course, with white shirt and deep-red tie. With His neatly trimmed goatee, He looked like a well-groomed devil, if Satan had inhabited the pages of GQ.
She lifted her hand from His arm and reached for His face, but He caught her hand and placed it back in her lap.
“No touching,” He said, speaking for the first time since they’d left their condo.
The slight edge to His voice cut through her like jagged ice. She remembered now; He’d told her that back at their condo, when He’d laid out the clothing He wanted her to wear. No touching. She hadn’t retained it because she hadn’t thought—at the time—that He’d been serious. Apparently He was quite serious, because now He was looking at her the way He did when she spilled something on the granite counters in their kitchen.
“I’m sorry, my Master,” she whimpered, casting her eyes lower. This time she made herself sound small on purpose, because of the effect it tended to have on Him. She heard Him release a breath, His only reaction, and smiled to herself.
She must have given away her impudence with something—a tensed muscle, a facial twitch—because He knew. He knew. Damn it!
But He did not take her over His knee this time, as He was wont to do. And their leather BDSM horse was miles away in the dungeon room at their condo. Then what…?
He pulled out His phone, held her nervous gaze a moment, then texted something into it. He held the device casually, as if He did not care if she saw what He wrote. And of course she looked.
Add throat, the text message said.
Giving her His unreadable look, He watched her eyes as He pressed Send.
Uh-oh. What had she done? Her nervousness climbed to full-blown anxiety, and she began to tremble. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
He held her eyes a moment longer, until she thought she might faint, then He opened His car door and got out. Despite her mounting alarm, she managed to notice how cute His hard, tight butt looked in the trousers of His suit. She waited, watching as He opened the back door of the car and slipped His suit jacket off its hanger and onto His body. She watched His long, powerful fingers as He buttoned the jacket, giving the fabric a gentle smoothing, and imagined He was stroking her.
But that was not to be, for now. He crossed to her side of the car, opened her door. Offering her one hand, which she took, He plucked the end of her leash from her lap with His other, and gave it a tug.
The graceful platinum chain pulled taut against the link built into her matching platinum collar, the one that fit so snugly around her neck. The one He had fastened around her throat, and locked in place with a tiny gold padlock, on their wedding day. Being simultaneously assisted by His hand, and pulled by her leash, she rose from the car and stood on wobbly legs atop the red-soled black fuck-me stilettos He’d gotten her for today. She caught a glimpse of herself in the car’s side mirror as He closed the car door; she looked like a slutty schoolgirl, which she supposed was the point. It almost made her giggle, but at the last moment she caught herself; whatever “add throat” had meant in His text message, she didn’t want Him to pull out His phone and add anything else.
He led her away from the car, and towards the motel door with the number that taunted her nerves. 201—the end room of the second building. A plain, budget room, where they’d spent their honeymoon back when they’d first married, and before He’d made His initial millions.
But what was behind it now?
It seemed she was soon to find out, as He strode with her towards the door, only slightly taking into account that she could not walk as fast as He. As they reached the door, He lowered her leash, and slipped a hand into His pocket. Pulling out a pair of silver handcuffs He’d had custom-made in her wrist size, He bade her turn.
She’d caught her breath when she’d heard the soft clink of the metal, even before He revealed that He’d brought them. Seeing them glint in the dull light of the overcast sky sent her heart racing even faster. She turned, and tried to contain her growing excitement as He snapped them closed around her slender wrists. But when He faced her back towards the door, His touch on her hip firm, her apprehension shot towards panic.
As if He knew she was about to run, He put His hand on the small of her back, just above the swell of her buttocks, and opened the door of the room. She was trapped.
He went in first, of course, and tugged her leash to pull her in behind Him. Once inside, she struggled to see the details in the curtain-drawn room. The light was so dim that at first she thought the room was empty.
But no. On the far side of the small, spare room, standing even more in the shadows, was a man.
Her trembling threatened to become spasms. She turned towards the door, but He still held her leash. As the leash pulled tight once again, the metal collar snugged around her neck and kept her in place, no matter how much her feet wanted to run.
The man at the other side of the room came forward now. He was built slenderly, but powerfully, just like her Master. Same thick blond hair. He wore the exact same Brioni, the same shirt, the same sanguine tie.
And on His head was a masquerade mask, black, trimmed in silver filigree. It covered the upper half of His face; all she could see were His glittering dark eyes, the tip of His aquiline nose, the twist to His cruel mouth.
She thought she would pass out. Her knees started to buckle.
And then her Master touched her cheek. The cool finger snapped her attention to Him, and to His piercing gaze, and her knees straightened. He wanted her here, and she would not disappoint Him. She would not.
Once He was certain she would not embarrass herself, or Him, He turned to the other man, the man in the black mask.
“You got the text,” her Master said, like it was a fact.
Black Mask nodded, holding up his phone, screen out, so both her Master and she could see the “add throat” text.
Her Master nodded, apparently satisfied, and reached out the black leather loop at the end of her leash to Black Mask.
“Two hours, forty-five minutes,” her Master said to the other man, who nodded again.
Two hours and forty-five minutes? For what?
Then she realized for what, as Black Mask took her leash and led her to the bed. For the next two hours and forty-five minutes, he used her in just about every way she thought she could be used. He’d brought a large black leather bag filled with toys, restraints, gags, floggers, vibes, and plugs. She was fucked in every hole until she felt like the whore she knew she was. She was stripped naked of her schoolgirl outfit and used some more. She was fucked on the bed, the floor, the small desk. And she found out what “add throat” meant, as she choked on the massive head of his thick cock that tried to shove all the way down her esophagus.
And throughout it all, the man in the black mask never removed his suit. He merely unzipped his trousers and released his heavy cock to use on her. He was anonymous. He was cruel. He was unforgiving.
She loved it. Heaven help her, she loved it. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and given the dark proclivities of her Master, that was saying something. After the fourth or fifth one, she lost track of her orgasms. A sense of peace stole over her like she had never known. And somewhere in her overwhelmed brain, she remembered the significance of two hours, forty-five minutes.
And throughout the entire ordeal, her Master sat in a chair across the room, watching. He scarcely moved at all, His manner calm, yet coiled like a spring, and His narrowed stare was unreadable. Every time she was able to catch His steely gaze, she shivered, wondering what was going on behind those eyes.
At the end of the two hours and forty-five minutes, the man in the mask simply stopped. She had been so gone into subspace most of the time that she scarcely knew where she was, but she was pretty sure he hadn’t come; the tip of his condom remained unfilled.
The man removed the condom to the bin in the bathroom, zipped up, and gathered his toys back to the leather bag. With a nod at her Master, he departed the room in silence. At no time had he spoken, or even grunted.
The moment the motel door closed, her Master came out of His chair with the leonine grace of a big jungle cat. He strode towards the bed, His dark eyes locked on hers as she lay there, panting.
The huge erection straining at His expensive trousers left no doubt in her mind as to His intentions.
“You knew, didn’t you?” she breathed, as He reached the bed and removed His suit jacket, hanging it in the open closet.
He unbuckled His belt and slipped out of His trousers. Looked at her.
“I thought this was for you,” she said, still trying to catch her breath.
A faint smile crossed His full lips. He unknotted His tie, removed His shirt, T-shirt, and black boxers.
“You knew I wanted this,” she said. “You knew I needed this.”
His naked erection strained as He turned towards her, and she saw that His calmness was belied by the jumping throb in His long, heavy shaft.
“How did you know?” she asked, then felt silly. “You always know, don’t you? Ever since we met, you’ve known what I needed long before I did. Always.”
He climbed onto the bed, His urgent erection pressing into her belly as He took her in His arms. She felt Him leak His slippery fluid onto her soft skin. His eyes penetrated hers, to her core. She shivered, and her hands slid up the back of His neck into His thick blond hair.
“Happy Anniversary,” He said to her, brushing her lips with His. “I will always give you what you need. Always.” His gaze went dark, and she trembled. “But never forget. You are Mine.”
And for the next two hours and forty-five minutes—the length of time of their first lovemaking as husband and wife—He took back what was His.
One of the biggest parts of being a good Dominant to a female submissive is anticipating her needs. In this case, “needs” is defined as something she requires to be truly happy. Note that I said “truly”—half-happy is not happy.
Sadly, the way many women are raised—and the debris that society heaps on them—can conspire to block, even from themselves, their innermost desires and fantasies.
I’ve lost track of how many times a woman has said to me, “Oh, I would never do that.” And while I, and any decent Dom, always respect a true hard limit, I always probe to see if it is indeed a limit, or, instead, self-deception.
I want to be clear: in no instance that I’ve found, has this self-obfuscation ever been her fault. It has been done to her by some outside agent. Hollywood, magazines, religion, upbringing… The list seems endless, ranging from mild influences to outright trauma. Often, from birth.
And so she builds up blocks, shields, coping mechanisms. I spoke some about this in my previous article, “Attachment: One Dom’s Perspective”, but for the purposes of this article, those mental shields are the focus.
Sometimes, she simply doesn’t know what she needs, consciously, until her Dom figures it out and gives it to her. For the girl in our little vignette above, we could surmise that she was taught that only monogamous behavior showed her love for her partner. Yet, perhaps for her entire life, she craved an experience like the above, only to continually block it and hide it from herself, until she was no longer aware she needed it—if she ever had been aware.
There is no rulebook for any of this. Psychological studies may just be starting to scratch the surface, but D/s type behavior is so heavily frowned upon in a Puritanical society, that how is a girl supposed to learn about her true nature if she is considered to deviate from the “norm”? I mean, doesn’t all this sound like brainwashing?
That’s where a good Dom comes in. It’s His job—His joy, actually—to know His sub so well that she can’t hide anything from Him—no matter how much she may try. He discovers and brings to light every single one of her desires, even if her initial protests to the contrary are vociferous. Even if she screams at Him. Even if she tries to run. He gives her space; He gives her understanding; He gives her unconditional love. But: He doesn’t stop. He never gives up. Never. Giving up would tell her that she is right in her fears, that she is unworthy, that she is a deviant freak.
I submit that what has been done to women in general is the actual brainwashing. I’ve met so many who have no idea of their potential that I tend to be pleasantly startled to encounter one who does.
The untapped well of sensuality inside a repressed woman sometimes makes me growl uncontrollably. We guys are perverts, but a truly sensual woman blows us fellows out of the water. Here’s why: when she has been awakened to her true sensuality, there is very little she will not try, assuming she is in a high-trust relationship with her Dom or partner.
No, I’m not doing that “Women are so much better than men” bullshit that guys do to get laid—that’s phony. Women aren’t better than men, or worse—just different. And I’m quite thankful for that.
I repeat this over and over, because it is the most important thing to remember when searching for her buttons: for a girl to let herself go and acknowledge her true sensual and sexual nature, she must be with a partner she trusts completely. No half-measures will work here. And it takes time to build that trust, with occasional faltering and missteps.
But once she trusts, it’s like lighting a whole box of M-80s. Stand back. What a truly awakened submissive can take is wondrous to behold. Men are Yang; women are Yin. Men are hard; women are soft. But it is that very pliability that gives them their tremendous strength. Do I want to be flogged, roped, plugged, and throat-fucked? Absolutely not. But I know of—and know—women who can do all this, and far more. Willingly, happily, orgasmically. Boggles my mind, and makes me very happy to be a part of their experiences.
What the Dom is good for—or He should be—is finding all that inside her, showing her she is not a perverted freak—okay, she is, but in a good way—and bringing it out in her, one way or another. In our idealized vignette, our all-knowing Dom understood what His sub needed, even though it was something she could never have admitted to Him, much less to herself. His mild trickery was to get her to acknowledge a need He knew she had, but she did not. The sense of peace she experienced was that repressed part of herself finally letting go, at least for this activity.
Every woman is different, and her buttons will be different. I’ve known girls who will strip naked in the first thirty seconds and have sex, but won’t talk about their feelings. I’ve known girls who will only talk, as if the sound muffles the fears that keep trying to emerge. The responsibility for the Dom is to figure out what is beneath the noise, the shrouds, the fears. And make no mistake: it is a responsibility, because once He begins to awaken her needs, He CANNOT leave her hanging. Once a Dom connects with a submissive on that fundamental D/s level—once she attaches—it is cruel and unethical for Him to just drop her. (De-attachment is a topic for another article.)
I don’t mean to make it sound like women are these fucked-up creatures who don’t know what they want, and men are all-knowing gods. Neither is the case; both are simply human, with all the flaws and strengths that each brings to the relationship.
What I am saying is that women in particular have been so ground down under the societal fears about their sex and their truly bottomless desires (and I am so grateful for those desires!), that they are afraid to let go and be who they truly are.
This sucks dick, not to put too fine a point on it.
Oh, but opening one up, waking her up… The feeling is nearly indescribable to a mindfuck Dom like me, and I’m sure it is similar to other Doms as well. Seeing the realizations dawn on her face, through her body, is its own reward. (Of course, getting to do terribly naughty things to her is nice as well.)
Every woman has buttons. They are there, covered in a layer of obscuring shroud put there by one or more external agents—i.e., fearful assholes and conservative pricks. Each woman has different buttons, which makes finding them and clearing away the shroud a joyous adventure for both.
But when they are found, the bond that grows between the two people, between the Yin and her Yang, goes so far beyond any other type of relationship—in my not at all humble opinion—that the rewards are mind-numbingly spectacular, like standing in the path of a super nova and surviving.
Now if you will excuse me, I have some buttons to push.