AFTER THE CROSS
"Look at him suffering. Hard as stone. Desire like a flame burning inside him."
Jon's voice was low in my ear, and when I did look at Adam. Jon was so very
right about his condition it took my breath away. Adam did look miserable as my
kind, yet gentle, Master pointed out to me. Making me watch the complete
culmination of the scenario between Terry, Traci and Adam. The edge, now off of
his passion. (I took care of that.) I watched the brutal whipping in awe at the
amount of punishment that Adam could take. It was amazing. Here was someone
who would not balk at the barest taste of bondage that I had given Rob. Adam
would have laughed at my lack of ingenuity, my naivety. I wanted to fuck him
at that moment more than I had ever wanted to fuck anyone in my entire life. I
burned with it. Panted with lust at what I was seeing them do to Adam's willing
flesh. The worst thing about this situation was that I was going to have to
wait to touch him. I was not the one in control. It was exciting me. Driving
my sex-drive to astonishing proportions.
It was only when Terry was visibly exhausted that he released Adam's arms. His
compact body covered with sweat. His suit coat laying across an ottoman in the
center of the room neatly. I could just bet that not a thing was ever out of
place in this man's life if he could help it, and woe to anything that
disordered his existence. Terry was a perfectionist. It was visible in the way
he swung the lash, and in the way he stroked the heated flesh afterwards. He
had welted Adam expertly. Exhausting him and taking every once of resistance
from his sore body. When Adam's arms were slack, he fell to his knees with the
weight of his body. Gravity pulled him that way. Down to the floor. His head
hanging with debilitating lassitude between the trembling shafts of his arms.
His organ gloriously hard and straining against the thin leather covering it in
spite of the torment its owner had been through.
Terry took a couple of minutes to compose himself, and catch his breath.
Running a comb through his short hair, and studying the man before him. It was
then that he settled his cold eyes on me. I shivered in fear. Terry looked
narrowly at Jon, and Jon said,
"Do what you will." I stiffened, forcing myself to calmness. It was difficult
because I had no desire whatsoever to be in Adam's place. I would be just as
happy to avoid that part of this long night if I could possibly help it. I
didn't think that I would have any choice in the matter at this point, however.
I was trapped. I saw Traci move towards Adam and Terry move towards me. The
small man coming to stand before me with cool interest blooming in his eyes. He
reached for me, suddenly, his right hand tangling in my hair. The lean fingers
clenching it close to the scalp and pulling me painfully to my feet. I had no
will to resist those insistent digits, and followed them up. My head twisted to
the right side. The pain making me gasp.
This was not the playful agony that a skillful lover inflicts on you before
making you come in his arms. This was real pain. The kind of pain that a
dominant inflicts on a slave loaned to him to torment. The most surprising
thing to me was that I was not objecting, strenuously, to this blatant abuse. I
was letting him move me to whatever purpose he had for me.
Terry was practically dragging me to the center of the room, where Traci had
Adam standing at attention. The collar, harness and cock-sheath gone. His
thick organ encased in a condom, glistening in the lamps with lube. His
breathing ragged as if he had been running. Traci leaning close to his ear and
whispering into it with a low sibilant voice. The words galvanizing him. I
looked into his green-eyes and froze solid. The only thought running through my
head was. "They've broken him. His mind in gone." His eyes were inhuman,
ferociously animalistic. Almost glowing in the soft light. Terry spoke then,
near my left ear. His gloved left hand cupping my breasts to display them for
Adam's hungry feral gaze.
"Take her. Right now on the floor." Adam was almost drooling. I felt my body
tightening in preparation for his assault. "It's the only release you're going
to get tonight." That was all the encouragement Adam needed. One moment he was
ten feet from me and the next Terry had pushed me quickly forward into his
grasping arms.
Adam was boiling hot as my fingers gripped his flesh. The skin on his body like
an inferno. His blazing eyes focused on one thing and that one thing was
getting his organ inside me to fuck me. Nothing would stop him. He was beyond
turning back. I felt him pushing me down to the carpet and knew that I was no
match for him. Resistance was useless. The watching crowd of people panting in
sympathetic harmony with Adam. They either wanted to be him or me. At this
point I don't think they cared which it was. The scent of sex was in the air so
heavily, so pervasively, it was hard to draw breath around it. I felt his weight
on me. Heavily subduing me, forcing me to submit to his will. Adam's powerful
thighs spreading mine roughly, his organ searching for entrance into my slick
opening. I struggled against him to slow him down. Trying to let him know with
my body that I was willing, and it was going to be okay. I put my hands on his
arms, clutching at him. Catching his fevered excitement. Murmuring gently into
his face. My words meaningless. Feeling his organ slide into my sex with a
rough thrust of his hips. A low growl coming from his lips when he was in. His
eyes closing tightly as he ground his body against mine with strong pounding
shoves. Piercing me. Pinning me to the floor with his mindless lust. It was
electrifying. My body warming to the activity quickly. The hard screwing
arousing me acutely. I wanted him in me. I put my hands on his arms and with a
quick twist of his wrists he had my hands held tightly above my head. His face
buried in my shoulder. I felt him in me. Fucking me fiercely. I heard myself
whispering his name. Half-plea, half-entreaty. `Adam. Adam. Adam, The low
noise I was making must have penetrated his erotic fog, because I felt a little
nibbling bite against my neck and realized that Adam was with me somewhere. It
was no longer a mindless ravening beast using my body for release. It was Adam
in me. My Handler.
He pushed downwards. Grinding his hips against my pubis, organ stiffening. The
beginning of an orgasm rolling over me inexorably. Unstoppable and copiously
moist. My body pinned to the floor and arms held above my head. The swelling
of his penis driving me past the point of no return. I cried out with desire,
screamed into the air. Helpless in the grip of his fingers. I tried to free my
own hands to clutch at his buttocks and pull his flesh into mine. Closer to me,
a part of me. He held me down, not letting me go. Bruising my wrists with the
rough grip of his fingers. Biting at my neck, my shoulders. Sweat slicking his
body, and stinging my eyes.
When he came it was an explosion of violent dimensions. Huge, enormous. His
sweating face above me twisted with it. The jaw clenched, and lips drawn back
from his white teeth. Body arched into a bow. His turgid organ jerking roughly
against the walls of my sex. Punishingly delicious. Shatteringly erotic. I
erupted again beneath him unable to contain myself once again. It was too much!
The watching people an undertone of lustful spice to the perfect recipe of
dominance and submission we were acting out. My hungry release vibrating
against his organ. Feeling my sex leaking steaming fluids beneath me. The
rhythmic ritual pumping of his hard organ inside me. I followed him up to the
heights of orgasm. A sweeping primordial release of heat and need flushing my
skin. Burning me with its intense fire. I let him lead me to ecstasy, and damn
the consequences. I wanted right now, and I had him right now. I did not feel
any remorse or shame or embarrassment. I simply felt with him.
When Adam collapsed on top of me. His body slumped, and his breathing a harsh
staccato in my ears. Fingers relaxing their grip on my wrists so that I could
run my hands down his body, and whisper against his wet hair.
"It's alright. Alright now." Meaningless really coming from me. He needed it
from Traci. His mistress should be comforting him. I heard a low voice from
above us.
"I don't remember telling you to orgasm, bitch." I looked up sharply into the
blue-eyes of Terry. Angry eyes. I shuddered, feeling Adam moving from on top of
my quivering body. "I guess it's your turn now." I rolled up unto trembling
hands and knees. Shaking hard enough to rattle my bones loose. Scurrying to
Jon, and gripping his leg in miserable supplication. `Just a small
transgression.' Tears slowly making a trail down my face. I hadn't even
thought about it. I had just done it. I heard an astonishing sound from beside
me. Adam was speaking out of turn.
"I'll take her punishment." Terry laughed, and pushed him away. Leaning over
me to take a handful of my hair.
"How touchingly useless, Adam. I am almost appalled by your lack of manners.
As if you could help her now." He pulled me up, and over to the cross. I hung
my head. "Why will you be punished?"
"Coming without permission, Sir." I said slowly. He nodded, and called for Jon
to help him secure me. I was limp. Allowing them to place me on the device and
tightly bind me to it. The thing was surprisingly comfortable. There was no
strain in my shoulders. My wrists were not pinched in any way. I even relaxed
as I was bound. The creeping lassitude that always came over me when I was in
bondage once again stole over me. I surrendered to it.
Seeing Terry and Jon talking with low voices several feet away. Jon shaking his
head. Terry gesturing with one hand. Terry said something emphatically, and
Jon nodded in agreement. One thing was obvious. The decision was made.
I went home on early Sunday afternoon after hanging for most of the night on the
Punishment Cross. I didn't really consider it much of a punishment considering
the severity of my offense. [Ah, slave thinking again. It was cropping up in
the strangest places, like my car.] I had orgasmed twice without express
permission and didn't even have a bruise to show for it. Not that I didn't have
enough leftovers on my body from the weekend. The only thing about it was that I
knew by Friday they would have faded to obscurity.
I did not understand why Terry had simply tied me to the cross, put his gloved
fingers purposefully on my body and left me there. Hanging in the midst of the
party with Adam kneeling in exhaustion at my feet. There had been no pain after
that. Just the random explorations of the others around us. The gloved fingers
in me and on me. The insistent prodding at my resilient flesh a torture all its
own. Whoops, time to kill that train of thought. I had a whole week to go
before I could come anywhere near another orgasm and even then I might have
blown for the next couple of weekends. That was the worst part about
disobedience. The price you had to pay. I stopped thinking about it because I
was home with the thick file folder that Jon had handed me as I was leaving.
Like I didn't have enough to do. Well, my apartment was glad to see me.
Everything the same, well kept. The computer flashing at me with messages. The
sunlight slanted through the slats on the windows with soft brilliance.
Flashing off the tables.
I loved my apartment. It was detailed my way. Pure white walls and pale cream
furniture. The over-stuffed kind that enclosed your body when you sat on it.
Bright-colored throws over the backs of just about everything I owned. It was
comfortably adequate.
I threw my now empty bag into the closet and shut the door on it. Strange not
to have my "toys." They had been with me longer than most of my boyfriends.
The odds and ends that I used on myself to create the proper masturbatory mood.
[Hey, it was almost better than the shower massage. Think about it. I had a
feeling that I was going to be disconnecting that fucking thing soon, so the
temptation wouldn't overwhelm me with its convenience.]
I took a deep breath and dropped my journal on the kitchen table. It was white
oak with tall backed chairs. I went to make myself a whole pot of Jamaican Blue
Mountain coffee. As it was brewing, I opened my journal and unclipped the pen
that Jon had left in there. The heavy gold pen that I had used at his desk in
the Library. I tried to write about what I felt and found it surprisingly
difficult. Mostly what I felt was confusion. The conversations of the weekend
a jumble of truth that rang like bells in the back of my mind. How? Why?
When? The questions were endless really. The product of an active mind and
even more tireless sex drive. Was this now part of my reality or simply some
moral dilemma that I had to work out someplace other than my mind? That was the
crux of the problem right there. Not the morality really. I had always felt
that as long as I did not damage anybody else with my antics I could do what I
wanted too with my body. It was the head-trip part of it. I had passed from
the realm of fantasy into the physical manifestation of my dreams. That was
heavy. I was sharing parts of myself that I had never shared before. Hell, I
had sex with a married man. [What would Sister say?] The funny thing was that
I knew the truth and couldn't bring myself to admit it. I just kept shaking my
head, denying it. The coffee was done and I poured a cup of the fragrant
liquid. The heady steam warm against my face. I sat back down at the table,
facing the window and my pen just started to move of its own accord. I crafted
nothing just let my thoughts drift.
<<<<<>>>>>
I remembered being a child of twelve. Reading voraciously in my room to escape
from the constant bickering of my parents. Wondering, in my childish way, how
they had ever ended up a couple. What dysfunction had pulled these two together
from all the other people they could have chosen? At that age I didn't really
care. All I wanted was to talk on the phone with my girlfriends and eat Pizza.
It was about that point in my life that I discovered boys. Only in the capacity
that they bugged me of course, but there was something more about them. They
made me feel funny. Warm all over, almost hot. The way they smelled and
walked. The inexplicable things they did to attract my attention. The wild
thoughts that flared into my head when I thought about them. I also discovered
romance novels. The hot ones of course.
They had descriptions of that secret thing that tantalized and excited me about
the boys I went to school with. These books detailed the act of sex. The
mechanics. Not only that but the way they did it! Bound and captive. Beaten and
raped by the man she will love further on in the book. Tied up and kidnapped to
the Harem of a desert sheik for lessons in forbidden pleasures. Exotic
locations and flowery passages. It was always the parts about coercion that I
enjoyed. The darker passages that inflamed me. Making the wetness flow from my
virgin body easily and driving my fingers into my own tight flesh.
I hid these books from my bible-thumping father in a surfeit of shameful
embarrassment. Nobody could know what I thought about. What I truly longed
for. I learned very early to hide what I did not think others would understand.
It was then that I started writing it down. The fantasies that moved me
profoundly. The ones that kept me awake at night. The confidential mysteries
that fueled the fires of my lust making me burn with desire. I shared them with
one person back then and had her turn on me in repugnance. Avoiding me
studiously because of my confidences. I had been abandoned, subjected to the
ridicule of my peers. Never, ever, again. Once was enough. I, at no time
since, have exposed myself to that kind of derision again. I carried the secret
of my sexuality inside me closely. A solitary fire that warmed only me, denied
and waning from disuse. My burden until Rob brought it to the surface one night
with a simple supremely erotic phrase.
"If you move while I'm fucking you. I'll beat your ass with a riding crop."
His hard velvet voice freezing me to the bed. I didn't dare move except to come
and, boy, did I ever. Over and over. The entire bed was the wet spot. Ahh,
bittersweet memories. Rob had no idea that he was creating the kind of monster
that he was. I changed. I was still changing. My body awash with erotic
desires. Perusing the books that he kept in a big drawer under the nightstand.
I found a copy of something so arousing, so decadent, my sex damn near exploded
without being touched. I sat in his big bed and read The Story of O, in one
sitting. I didn't even get up to pee. Hell, I was barely breathing. What a
rush.
This story was so different from anything that I had ever read before in my life
that it stunned me. It contained passages of incredible beauty and unthinkable
sadism. A well-blended mix of desire and degradation. It also gave me plenty
of fresh ideas and a category to look for in the bookstores. Simple logic told
me that they had to have more of this kind of book somewhere. Better yet, it
told me that I was not the only person on the planet thinking of this kind of
sex. (Moral Minority included.) I was part of a vast underground network and
most of us were afraid to say anything about it for fear of being thought
deviant. Right. I did find that amusing. It's no wonder that most of the
people in the United States had relationship problems. All of us are afraid to
say what we want out of dread that we won't fit the American mold. Duty, honor
and fairness. Tough Americans.
Wrong, lonely Americans. I knew plenty of people that got their sex on the
Internet. Dutiful wage whores to the places they work for with no exterior
life. That's all they have and even if they are lucky enough to have someone to
go home too. They don't really talk to them. They treat them like an
appliance. Nice country, huh? I've been an appliance, it stinks. The funny
thing about the convenience drill is that you can see yourself as the item.
My problem was the only appliance that I could really compare myself too was a
Frigidaire. I was cool, durable and I had a nice freezer section for when I got
pissed off. No more of that for me, thank God. Which brings us to the deviant
part. Let's say that only two percent of the population of the U.S., is into
D/S, S/M or B/D, whatever you want to call it. Let's say that further more
these people congregate into big cities because it's easier to `shop' for others
of our kind here. We have support groups and parties. We mingle and swap
stories. We just exist the same way that everybody else does. The thing is
that I have never met a pervert at one of these things. A real one. Most of
the people that I have met are normal the better part of their lives. We work,
eat, have get-togethers, have kids that have to be kept out of the `toy box.'
We have normal lives. It's the narrow-minded judgments of a few cowards that
keep us separated from the mainstream, not by fair means, no; they separate us
by a wall of silence. Who could I tell? Who in the mainstream of my world
would understand that I, as strong as I am, want to be turned inside out when I
hit the bedroom? Who will understand that I don't want one of these new
sensitive men but a high-handed male savage that knows what he wants? They
would think that I was some kind of traitor against the women's movement, when
in reality I am one of its finest examples. I crawled out of the muck of an
abusive relationship without whining about it. I have earned the right to enjoy
the kind of sex that I enjoy and the Hell with anyone that tells me I need
`help.' Those people irritate me too. I have on good authority that if you
are injured while taking part in an S/M related activity the medical
establishment can have you put away for psychiatric evaluation as a danger to
yourself. Hello? That's a nice way to keep people from seeking medical care if,
God forbid, they are injured while playing. It's probably a good thing that Jon
has that Doctor on the staff. I feel anger at this. This being made to feel
like there is something wrong with me. That my preferences make me some kind of
a freak. I don't hurt anybody else and I'm very considerate of my co-workers.
What about what I want? Can't I have a good quality relationship with all my
personal specifications or do I have to sell my soul to the normal world to be
considered decent? Why should I have to do that? What makes normal the right way
to be? What is normal?
There it is, that endless restlessness again. I feel it coming over me in a
flooding surge of logical progression. I need what I need and the Hell with
anybody that thinks I'm a freak. Screw that! Screw them!
<<<<<>>>>>
I put down the pen for a moment, realizing that the page was full and I had been
sermonizing myself. I didn't need to be convinced, but I felt a deep soul
sadness that I had to hide my true nature from most of the world. Sitting in my
kitchen, drinking coffee. Trying to decide what parts of my life were truly
important at this point. Feeling the pull of my well-fucked body against my
clothes. The whirling flow of thoughts in my head. I felt more alive at this
point than I had for a long time. I was finally awake. I pulled the file
folder that Jon had given me over to the center of the table as I contemplated
my life and opened it. It was a full list of instructions with the usual
details.
Anne,
for this week I want you too
1- Write everyday in your journal- Dazzle me
2- read three books about S/M, B/D or D/S. Your choice
3- Keep Wednesday evening clear for Adam
4- Doctor on Thursday at 2000 hours.
Remember the rules
Jon
I sat staring at the list and felt my heart hammering in my chest. He wanted me
to do these things but I didn't see how I would be able too. It was too much!
Adam during the week? Why? I took a deep breath and prioritized. `Okay, break
it down into little chunks, Annie.' The same way that I handled multi-plex
problems at work. It was Sunday afternoon, almost evening. I would dazzle him
alright. I'd start now and work through it one day at a time. Start with the
place it all began. The Urban Times. Looking for any thing that would fire my
imagination
