You Never Know Who's Behind The Curtain
I shared this in the BDSM group, but I think it might belong here moreso than there. Hope you enjoy.
The bouquet of three dozen red roses was delivered by a local flower shop. I couldn’t imagine who would be sending me flowers. I’d broken up with my boyfriend months ago and hadn’t been out since. It wasn’t that I wasn’t attractive. I have a neat figure, long legs, firm, despite being in my late thirties. I wear nice wire fr
I took out the card. It was large, not the usual size. Inside it was another envelope marked: Read me only in private. Something about it seemed serious so I closed my office door and opened the envelope.
The handwriting was definitely male, but neat and concise:
I know what you do in the office at night.
Meet me at the Cinema 3X, downtown, at 6:30 P.M..
Do not wear panties.
Do not wear a bra.
Do I need to tell you to wear a button up the front blouse and a skirt?
No pantyhose. Stockings are fine.
Wear whatever else you wish.
If you do not come, I will see to it that what you do comes to the attention of the appropriate people.
My hands shook as I re-read the note. Someone knew. Someone knew! But how?
I’m a computer programmer. I work for the State Tax department. For the right price, I can kick a return out of the "audit" file. It wasn’t so bad. I had bigger bills than my paycheck. This helped everyone: the taxpayer, me, and well, me. It bought braces for my kids, a nicer car than I could afford. It kept the electric on in the winter. Nothing ostentatious, just enough. And just enough to be a crime.
It was a felony. I knew that.
I was an assistant deputy commissioner—they’d crucify me. Public corruption, fines. I’d lose my home.
I wanted to weep. I wanted to scream. I called home and left a message on the answering machine:
"Hey, Jordan, it’s mom. I’ve got to meet a client tonight. (the kids thought the extra money was from a moonlighting job. My kids aren’t stupid; lying to them was crucial to making all this work). Tell your sister to order pizza. Use the money in junk drawer. No friends over! It’s a school night. I love you both, very, very much."
What if the Admirer hurt me? Killed me? Oh, god. I felt sick. If I didn’t go the worst could happen. If I did go, it still could.
I laid my hands on my desk and felt my palms slide wetly over its surface. I swallowed, terrified and made up my mind to go.
I stopped at a discount store and changed my turtle necked shirt for a navy button up the front blouse. The dark silky material did little to hide the shape of my breasts or my nipples poking against the fabric but at least it wasn’t sheer. While I changed in the dressing room I also removed my panties. Simply putting my panties in my purse made me shake with fear. It felt so final and frightening. At least my skirt was a decent length so that I wasn’t sitting exposed on the leather of my car seat.
The 3X was located in an old part of downtown. Several abandoned store fronts, and barred windows on the ones that were still open, gave silent testament to the woeful and malignant state of affairs in which the remaining local residents and surviving businesses existed. Stalling for time, not wanting to get out of my car, I read over the signs above the entry ways, pawn brokers, adult video and "entertainment" sales, cut rate jewelers, and an all night diner.
Swallowing back a sob, I threw open the car door and gasped as I felt a cold gust of wind blow up my skirt. Hastily, I got out and slammed the door and stepped on to the sidewalk. I tried to look tough, but immediately the loiterers and panhandlers took notice of me. I quickly crossed the street and approached the ticket booth.
"What feature?" the man in the booth asked.
Stunned, I didn’t know what to answer. I had no clue. I looked up at the marquee and read the titles: "Bondage Beauties," "The Domination" and "Worn and Whipped". "There weren’t instructions for that." I mumbled and started to turn away.
"I already have the tickets," a low voice answered.
It wasn’t a cruel sounding voice—whatever cruel sounds like. It was even strangely familiar. I turned and found myself looking at a man’s chest, in fact the lower middle of a man’s chest. I looked up, expecting a gargoyle; after all, what kind of man has to blackmail a woman for her company? Then again, it probably wasn’t my company that I was expected to give. He wasn’t at all unattractive. In fact, he was absolutely my type—I haven’t had a date in years, but he was what I would have wanted.
He was tall, graying temples, green eyes and dark lashes that formed a tantalizing dark line around his eyes. A thin scar slashed the curve of his right brow, the other was evenly mimicked by the clear, rimless edges of his glasses. His cheekbones were pronounced without being prominent and his chin was firm. His mouth was sensuous but not too pretty and sat fittingly beneath a long straight and elegant nose. But for his height, he could have blended in to a crowd. In fact a crowd was where I’d last seen him.
Last Sunday morning.
In the pulpit.
The Revered Dr. Edmund Stephen Spencer.
My mouth opened and closed in shock.
He didn’t wait for me to blurt out what I was thinking. Instead, he pulled me away from the booth and into the theatre lobby. It was dark and I stumbled on the jagged and worn carpet. He caught my arm and pulled me along down a hallway, passing the restrooms and entering not the theatre viewing area but a storage room somewhere behind the screen.
It wasn’t quiet. One of the other features was showing and the sound track blared into the small room we were in. A woman was moaning and crying out with pain. Real or imagined, it sounded convincing and I felt myself tremble with awareness. Sexual awareness, not fear. And now, although this man and I were alone under terrifying circumstances, because of where I’d last seen him, foolishly or not, I believed I’d go home alive.
"You came. I’m pleased,’ he informed me and sat down in a ragged business chair, idly rolling it over the uneven and broken, faded green tiles of the floor.
I said the first thing that came to mind, "Why here?"
"No one would think to look for us here. You didn’t even recognize me at first."
"No. I didn’t." I choked out. "You’re a preacher! How can you! How did you know! Is this just to teach me a lesson!" My voice rose with outrage. How dare he do this to me!
He didn’t seem phased by my outburst, only his features hardened. I glared.
"I even pay tithes on what I take! How dare you!"
He drummed his fingers on the desk beside him and finally answered. "I know, because I heard it in a confession. I’m not a private eye by any means. No, this isn’t to teach you a lesson. I want you, but I want you to feel the same sense of shame and futility that I do every time I look at you and know I can’t control what it is you make me feel."
I stepped back, stunned, and then laid a shaking hand over my mouth. My eyes widened and I shook my head in denial. He cocked his head and spoke casually, almost disinterestedly.
"I’m going to **** you here. Here, where we’ll both feel shame and degradation. I don’t intend to suffer in this alone. And we’ll **** often—as often as possible. But now that you mentioned teaching lessons, we’ll start with you bending over this desk and lifting your skirt."
He took off his belt then and doubled looped it in his hand.
"No!" I screamed and ran for the door behind us. I never made it even to the door knob. Catching me against him, he caught me and hauled me physically to the desk and threw me face down over it. The impact knocked the breath out of me and I cried out as his hand caught my skirt and yanked it up and then grabbed my flailing wrist holding both it and the skirt against my back pinning me there.
I heard the belt whistle, snap, and then the horrible sound of the tanned hide hitting mine. The scream was more from shock than pain but the second and third strikes against my bottom and thighs made me scream in earnest. I danced under the whipping like a child and quickly began to cry and beg.
"Beg me to **** you instead of whipping you!" he ordered.
I couldn’t say it, I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. The belt caught my thighs again and laid stripes over my ***. The burning was hideous. My hips bounced against the desk and I kicked and cried. No one would or could hear me. The background noise was overwhelming, wild music, moaning, pounding. My *** burned and blistered. I felt welts rising over welts and the words finally spilled over my lips,
"Oh, no more! Please, no more. Please **** me! Please, please **** meee!"
I shook and sobbed pain wracked moans into the dirty top of the desk.
The whipping stopped.
"Unbutton your shirt. Now!"
My hands shook so badly I couldn’t manage the buttons and finally I just pulled it up over my **** making him chuckle. He laughed behind me and bent over me to stroke my nipples. His breath was warm against my neck and his lips brushed my ear lobe. "I’ll bet, when I reach between your legs, that you’re wet."
Even as I sobbed, a shudder went through me. His voice was silky, taunting and I felt it all the way to my ****.
"Noooo," I whimpered desperately and shook my head in denial. His tongue licked my neck and then traveled down until his lips were on the curve of my throat and shoulder. He bit me and I cried out and lurched forward, my **** filling his hands as he pinched and pulled on my nipples.
"Have you ever had these clamped?" he whispered and pinched the pink tips hard between his fingers.
"No!" I cried. "I’m a good girl!"
"Except you’re a thief," he added and stepped back from me. I heard his zipper and the shuffling of clothing. "Spread your legs, thief."
I hesitated and then saw his hand reach for the belt beside me on the desk. "NO!" I barked and opened my legs, even raising my *** to make his entry easier.
His **** prodded me and I felt him pushing against my ***** lips. "Next time, I want you shaved. Or better yet, waxed."
"Next time?" I repeated and cried out as he shoved ruthlessly into me.
It was a shocking entry, but not a painful one; I soaked him in juices. "Oh, my god, no!" I whined. Actually whined with shame. His laughter was smug. I writhed in humiliation and then felt worse as my movements pushed his **** deep inside me and I realized it felt so good.
He began to thrust in to me and I tried to hold still, to not feel the pleasure of a man taking me, ******* me. It had been so long. . .
"Next time, you’ll be naked!" his command was punctuated with harsh quick thrusts and slaps over my raw ***.
"I begged," I choked out accusingly as the pain again radiated over my butt and thighs.
"Beg me again!" he grunted and slapped my burning *** again.
"Please, **** me! Please!" I obediently cried out.
"I’m going to whip your *** and make it red," he thrust into me and grasped my hips, his fingers digging into my skin making me cry out for mercy. He ignored me and sluiced through my wetness with his ****, deep inside me, hard, so hard that I knew I’d be horribly sore. His threats of perversion and filth grew more guttural and were hissed into my ear,
"And I’m going to clamp your **** before I **** you! And your nipples!"
I could imagine the sordidness, see it all. Me, naked, my thighs opened as he put some devious device on my **** and then my nipples. Naked, shaved—bare and wet— and then whipped and ****** as I was this moment.
"I’m going to whip you and make you wet! Wet like you are now!"
I arched against him, my hair whipping backwards over my shoulder as I hissed in return, "YES!"
"YES! OH YES!"
"**** YOU UNTIL YOU CAN’T WALK!"
"YES! YES! **** ME! HURT ME! OH, YES!"
I was begging—for more! Wanting more. My hips thrust against him and he slapped my *** as he thrust and screwed me into the desktop. My **** throbbed and I felt it swell until it made me explode against him, ******* him like an animal. I pushed up from the desk and he reached in front of me and rubbed my ****. I kicked and clutched at the air as I came and then slumped against him exhausted as he pumped me full of his ***.
For a moment we stood, and then we fell forward onto the desktop. I couldn’t breathe; and it wasn’t his weight. I was truly spent. I didn’t even realize I had begun to sob again until I heard his mocking soft laughter behind me.
"Turn around," he ordered and I did so, weakly, leaning heavily against the desk for support. "Lift your skirt out of the way—I want to watch your juices and my *** drip down your legs."
Weakly, I gathered my skirt and moved it, feeling overwhelmed by my shame, and sick from the wetness that I could feel running down my skin.
"Do you feel dirty and ashamed now?"
I nodded yes and dropped my face into the hand that had covered my eyes. I heard the chair roll towards me and then jumped in shock as I felt him peel back my ***** lips and look at my red, ****** hole and the sinful milk running from it.
He kept looking and I felt my shame and anger burst from my lips, "Why are you looking!"
He didn’t look away from the sight of my shame "Visible sin; It’s irresistible." Pressing a finger against me he swirled our juices and finger ****** me a little. I cried out, already sore. He looked up then with a smile.
"It’s going to hurt to walk. You’ll think of me ******* you with every step you take." Taking his wet finger, he touched the tips of my nipples and dried the wetness on my skin.
"Why didn’t you just turn me in to the police?" I whimpered and he stood up.
"Because this seemed so much more enjoyable," he laughed bitterly. "Every sermon I’ve ever given, every damn church social, every single time I saw you, I wanted you, like this. The way I used to ****, the way I used to be. The way you are inside beneath all those la
I shook my head in denial and he smiled, coldly. "I know this is what you are and what you want to be. And I’m so sure of it that I’ll make the next time your choice. But I know it will be soon."
He zipped up his pants and reached for the belt. I trembled and then sagged with relief as he threaded it through his jeans. He started for the door and I cried out, "Please don’t leave me." He stopped and looked at me quizzically, "More already?"
I shook my head and pulled down my blouse. "N-no. The neighborhood. . ." I waved helplessly around the room indicating the larger world beyond us. He sighed, "I’m sorry. I should have thought of that."
The apology shocked me as much as everything we’d done. He waited then, and held the door for me as we exited the room. I felt weak and sick and he took my arm, supporting me through the theatre, even to my car.
I fell in to the driver’s seat and he knelt briefly beside me. "Are you sore? Did it hurt to walk?"
My answer was a whispered, "Yes."
"And it feels good, doesn’t it? Just the way your *** burns right now and the way it will even tomorrow."
I couldn’t answer. I just looked down.
"Find your keys," he instructed. I did, digging around in my purse. "Are you able to drive?"
I thought for a moment. "Y-yes, Rever–"
"Stephen," he interrupted and unexpectedly kissed me. He was amused and laughed as he finished "I"ll see you Sunday," and shut my door.
I looked up, stunned, disbelieving. He grinned mockingly and saluted me as I turned over the motor and gunned the gas.
I was more grateful than ever to see my kids and hugged them so much my boy told me to quit slobbering on him. I faked a smile and let them stay up late in order for me to escape to a shower and fall in to bed. Exhaustion enabled me to sleep but I tossed and turned all night. The bedclothes were in a shambles the next morning and I was as sore as he’d said I’d be. I could barely walk. My *** burned. I squirmed and bit my lip and then, at some terrible point realized that the burning felt good and that my squirming only made it hurt better.
It took a long drive during lunch and a good cry before I could face going back to work. I ached, I burned and I liked it.
How had he known?
How had the son of a ***** known something that I had never even voiced? Nothing, in all the years of marriage to my husband, had ever remotely come close to the sex that I’d had yesterday. Nothing.
Sunday came and went and I feigned illness. A friend took the kids to church. They came home from services and advised me that I was missed. I asked by whom and the generic answer from both of them was "Duh, everybody."
That didn’t answer my question.
Did he feel the guilt? Any guilt? Did he ache to **** me again the way I ached for him to **** me?
I wanted that feeling, the burning and soreness. The more it faded, the more I needed. I cried with shame at myself and disgust with my desires. By the end of the week, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of woman would want such a thing?
While the kids were out on Saturday, I went on the Net and discovered that women like me weren’t just Masochists; They were also called "submissives" and based upon the number of websites I found, there were certainly a lot of them.
Sunday I decided we’d pay a surprise visit to my parents at their church. The kids were delighted to see their grandparents and I avoided one more Sunday with him.
The burning was gone from my *** and I could walk without pain.
So, via anonymous Internet teleflora I sent one red rose with a card,
The diner across the street.7:00 P .M. Thursday.
I didn’t arrive one minute before 7:00 o’clock; it’s a bad neighborhood. I also knew he’d be there early.
He sat at a booth drinking coffee, relaxed in jeans and shirt sleeves. I wore a button up the front blouse, without a bra and long full skirt which made me feel safer inasmuch as I was not wearing panties. He looked me up and down and gave me a wry knowing smile. He was a handsome man, damn him.
I sat down and didn’t speak but a waitress arrived and I managed to order a cup of coffee which she promptly brought and then promptly disappeared. I didn’t know what to say and he solved the problem effectively.
"Waxed or shaved?"
My hands shook and the coffee spilled a little. I put down the cup and pulled napkins from the dispenser trying to mop up the mess. Looking up I could see he was laughing at me. I blotted the mess and whispered "Waxed."
He raised his brows and nodded, "I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to have it done."
"I went to a salon thirty miles out of town," I admitted. That made him smile, really smile, and I felt stupid to be so pleased that I’d made him smile.
We didn’t speak, and the disappearing waitress returned twice and filled our cups before either of us said another word. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry and I knew that I was not.
"Please say something," I whimpered, hating the sound of my voice, the pathetic pleading and helplessness.
"You liked it, didn’t you? Obviously, you did or you wouldn’t be here."
I didn’t answer, but rather nodded in acquiescence.
"Did it hurt to walk? Were you sore?"
I nodded and he shook his head ‘no’. "Speak."
I finally looked up. "Yes. Yes it hurt to walk. I could feel it, feel you, deep inside me. I wanted to hold myself—hold myself there—and cry."
"Did being sore make you wet? Did you touch yourself?"
I remembered the morning before I sent the rose, the shower, lathering my breasts and stroking my **** until I came. He stared pointedly at me and I answered softly, "Yes. It did. Yes. I did. I touched myself."
"What did you think about? Did it make you come?"
"I thought about what you did to me. What you said you’d do to me."
He put down his coffee and lounged in the booth as if totally at ease. "Do you want me to do those things to you?"
"Do you want to be whipped?"
"How big was the ***** you bought?"
I looked up shocked, afraid, "You’re following me!"
He smirked and I wanted to slap him. "No. I know you. I knew you’d try to satisfy that need, that itch, without crawling back to me for more. You’re very self sufficient. You’re a thief to be self-sufficient. Now, tell me, how big was it?"
"I don’t know. I grabbed the biggest one on the shelf," I snapped.
He laughed gently, "I’m not that big."
"I wanted it to HURT!" I retorted and then cringed as several patrons turned around to look at me like a two headed calf.
Chivalrously, he seemed compelled to save me from public embarrassment, "And I’m sure when you slapped him it did." A couple of the men shrugged and went back to their coffees and a woman gave me a thumbs up. I dropped my head into my hands.
He leaned forward and whispered, "I’m sure it hurt—but it didn’t hurt good, did it?"
I looked up at him, miserable. "Why couldn’t you have just asked me out on a date?"
His eyes bore in to mine and held me, "Because you’d have been you, and I’d have been me and we’d have behaved very appropriately and that wasn’t at all how I wanted you."
Inexplicably, that depressed me. "So I’m just a ****."
He seemed to consider my question very carefully before answering, "I didn’t say that." Then, more thoughtfully, "No, I wouldn’t say that. Unless that’s what or all you want to be." He toasted me with his coffee. "Ball’s in your court."
"I’m not promiscuous!"
"I know," he responded affably. "Neither am I."
"I have two children—and one’s a teenager!"
"I’m a widower. And a grandfather. Bet you didn’t know that. And you should come back to church."
"Will you make me come if I do?"
His eyes showed surprise at my retort and I felt quite pleased with myself. Until I realized what I’d admitted.
I couldn’t believe I’d said that and slapped a hand over my mouth. He laughed then, warmly, not mean or smug. Leaning towards me, he whispered , "Yes I’ll make you come. Hard, shaking, wildly with no control."
I swallowed and pressed my fingers to my lips hard enough to feel my teeth bruise the flesh.
"You must stop that, you know."
"What," I managed softly and took an inelegant swig at my coffee.
"Covering your mouth," he answered and waved at the waitress for the check. "It’s hard for me to imagine my **** down your throat when you do that. If you really need help keeping quiet, I can snap a ball gag on you."
My mouth dropped open in shock. Why he could shock me now, I don’t know, but he could.
He smiled then, slightly smug, but with a warmth that made it less than a smirk. Taking the check he left a generous tip and slipped a hand under my elbow, all manners and politeness. He paid, thank God, because my hands were shaking so badly I knew I’d have spilled every dime of change in my pocket.
Outside we went crossed the street and he guided me towards the **** shop a couple of doors down from the cinema. Self conscious, I looked all around, what if someone saw us? What if someone we knew was in there?
"Don’t worry. No one ever sees anyone in these places."
"How would you know!" I argued. "You’re a preacher!"
"I wasn’t always," he answered and pushed open the door and pointed towards a particular aisle. I tried not to look at the merchandise, keeping my head down. I’d had a hard enough time buying the ***** out of town.
We stopped and I looked up. Before me were ******, and things I’d learned called butt plugs. I felt my face flush and burn.
"Show me which size you bought," Stephen asked using a tone that brooked no resistance. I looked up and glanced at the various **** shaped rubber, plastic and even glass phalluses. I saw one like the one I’d purchased and whispered back, "Second from the top, third over, the flesh colored one."
Stephen took down the inordinately large, flesh toned rubber **** and examined it. It was thick and long. It came with two kinds of lube, plain and hot.
"When was the last time you used it?"
"Three days ago," I admitted and felt shame wash over me.
"Plain lube or hot?" his question was casual but I sensed annoyance.
"I, I tried the plain and then the hot."
"Did you like it? Did it hurt, hurt the way you wanted it to?"
I shook my head ‘no’. Stephen grasped my chin in his fingers and tilted my face up to look at his. "You were too proud to call me. You chose this instead of me?"
"I told you; I’m not promiscuous."
"But you called for a **** tonight," he sneered and then laughed that contemptuous smug laugh he had. "I should be flattered you thought it would take a **** that size to give you what I did."
I didn’t know what to say to that and fell in step behind him. We turned up an aisle and stopped in front of an array of gags. Ball gags, ‘o’ rings, leather straps, chin straps, leather hoods that laced over the mouth and back of the head. He looked over all of them and I felt myself grow wet just looking at them. Damn it! I folded my arms angrily over my **** and just stood there. Stephen took his time until he settled on two, an ‘o’ring and a ball.
Turning to look at me he held the ball gag up close to my mouth. "Open your mouth–wide," he ordered and I did so. He compared the ball and my mouth for a moment then traded the ball for a slightly larger one. Keeping both the o ring and the ball, he headed down the aisle towards the front of the store.
We neared the counter and he grabbed a bottle of lube and I shot what I thought was a clever barb, "What, afraid you won’t be able to get me wet enough?"
Stephen turned back with a feral smile, "I don’t need you wet to **** you. I’d enjoy it just as well if you weren’t. I just thought you might need it. But if you’d rather I **** you hard and dry. . ."
The clerk looked at Stephen and nodded in approval and then laughed. I turned my back on them both and waited for the transaction to be over.
"Say you’re sorry," Stephen ordered and I turned around shocked that he’d go so far in public.
"I beg your pardon!" I gasped with outrage as Stephen leaned casually on the counter. "Say you’re ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’."
I started to refuse and then grabbed both of Stephen’s hands in mine as he started to undo his belt. "Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you." Stephen nodded, amused and then looked down at my hands, clutching his waistband and belt. "Honey, turn loose so I can pay the man."
Snatching my hands away I stalked to the door, appalled with what was happening and feeling too confused to be able to do anything about it.
Stephen took the gags out of their packaging and slipped them, with the lube in his jacket pocket. I jerked opened the door and stepped onto the cold sidewalk and felt the wind blow up my skirt making goose flesh on my bare bottom. Stephen stepped behind me and caught my arm, then tucked it around his as if we were walking arm and arm like normal people, or a nice middle aged couple out for a stroll.
We headed towards the theatre. I shuddered. I was going to be naked in there in a few moments. It seemed so sordid. I didn’t know what to say or do. He chose the movie, "Craving Submission" and I winced at how appropriate the title was. Walking in to the lobby of the old theatre, he took me to the balcony stairs. They were blocked by a velvet rope, which he promptly unhooked and guided me past and hooked again.
"Maybe it’s roped off because it’s not safe up there," I muttered wanted to postpone the inevitable now that it was right in front of me.
"It’s not unsafe," he answered. "It’s just to keep the lurkers and weirdos out."
"Which are we, lurkers or weirdos?"
He stopped on the first landing and looked at me, "I don’t know. I guess we’re either ******* or lovers. Depends on you."
He didn’t wait for me to answer but tugged me along. I followed, my heart pounding. This was so public. I felt vulnerable enough already, no panties or bra, just skirt, heels and blouse. I was dressed to be accessible, easy. I felt the shame hit me and started to bolt, forgetting his hand holding mine.
Abruptly his grip tightened and I was hauled back against him. "Oh, no you don’t. You’re staying!" he snapped and shoved me up against the wall. His ****, hard and thick, strained against his jeans and impaled my belly. His hand turned loose of mine and he used both hands to pull open my blouse, buttons popping and flying free. .
"You came here to be ****** and I’m going to **** you."
My breasts fell out of the opened shirt and Stephen quickly grabbed them and caught the nipples between his thumb and fore finger in each hand. He pinched and I moaned and spread my legs as his knee pushed between my thighs. I ground my **** into his leg and felt pleasure shoot through my body. God his thigh was so hard, like the rest of him.
His teeth found my throat and he nipped at me until I was wrapped around him, kissing him and moaning as he pinched and stroked my nipples.
"Put your head back," her ordered and I threw my head back against the wall. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the ball gag and slipped into my mouth. My lips caressed it and I obediently lowered my head so that he could buckle it securely behind my head. My eyes widened as I realized that it had begun–my *******. He stepped back from me and I felt my skirt fall away from my drenched ****. He looked down at his thigh in the dark, his fingers tracing where I had straddled him.
"You’ve wet my jeans," he murmured. And then rubbed his fingers on my cheek embarrassing me with the smell of my need. Stepping away, he chose an aisle, and I realized that the movie was already playing. On the screen a woman knelt at a man’s feet and greedily sucked his huge ****, taking it down her throat again and again.
I was mesmerized.
I was envious.
The camera panned to her nipples, pinched cruelly between alligator clamps, a fine chain draped over the vee of her breasts attached to each clamp. Between her legs, her ***** smooth like mine, was strapped what appeared to be a huge *****, at least it looked that way from the monstrous girth protruding from her ****. The camera swept around her and I saw that her thighs were awash with welt and marks, from either a belt or a crop, I wasn’t sure, but the marks crisscrossed her *** all around the globes but were obscured by the pony tail protruding from her *******, the black silky strands of the tail contrasting with the white of her reddened skin. Swallowing, I looked back at Stephen finding him watching me, bemused by my shock and fascination with the woman on the screen.
He sat down then in one of the theatre seats and looked up at me, pointing for me to come and stand before him.
It was an old balcony, the aisles wide and comfortable but still I was forced to stand between his knees. I waited, but I knew what he’d say.
"Take off your clothes, even your shoes."
I hesitated, frightened. I looked behind me and down and realized that anyone in the front row, if they turned around, could see me.
"Never mind them. I want you naked. Now."
I looked back again but complied, my hands pulling the ripped shirt off my shoulders, my breasts free and exposed. At least my hair shielded them somewhat, but when I reached for my skirt I stopped. I just couldn’t do it. I tried, but felt tears of shame fall down my cheeks. He seemed to take pity on me then, and reached up, under my skirt to palm the globes of my bottom, kneading them, caressing. It was a sensuous movement and I whimpered into the gag.
One hand, then, slipped around to caress my **** and I opened my thighs to give him greater access. I moaned, and realized that the sound was almost completely muffled. He rubbed me and slipped two fingers into my ****, not moving them, just holding them still. I bucked against his hand and then his voice was stern.
"No! If you want to be ******, take off your skirt."
I wanted it. I wanted his **** deep inside me. The pressure of his fingers made me crave it, him.
I cried in defeat and grasped the waist band of my skirt, unhooked it and let it fall to the floor.
"The shoes," he reminded me and I stepped out onto the cold, worn carpeted floor.
He sat for a moment, looking at my shaved mound and then reached out to stroke its smoothness. "Beautiful," he murmured, opening my lips and feeling the flesh that was coated already with need. He stroked over and between each lip, obviously pleased with the stylist’s results. Instinctively, I opened my legs, to give him a shadowed but better view. He palmed me, cupped me and then withdrew his hand.
"Turn around," he ordered and, shaking, I turned around to face the screen.
The woman was now on her hands and knees, her face on the floor, her hair spilling all around her and the man behind her ******* her hard and long. I could see the people below watching her. Some watched, some ***********. A couple *********** each other. The wetness in my **** glistened on my ***** lips. I felt it as it slid down my flesh and coated my thighs.
I screamed into my gag as something cold and wet pushed against my ******* and then deep up in side of me. Then **** filled my **** and I cried out and bucked against the foreign intrusion in my *** and the needed one deep in my *****.
A hand slapped my *** and I fell against the seat in front of me. Stephen ****** me, deeply and long and I screamed and thrashed with the horrible pleasure of what he was doing. I reached up and pinched my own nipples until his hands slapped mine away and hurt them. He chest was naked against my back but I could feel his jeans against my thighs.
He fumbled behind me for a moment then muttered angrily into my ear, "Lift your ****!"
I did as ordered and watched as the screen light flickered over my nipples as Stephen clamped them in punishing little alligator clamps. I screamed as first one, then the other was abused. My gag muffled my cries and I struggled to pull them off even as Stephen grabbed my hands and held me down while he used me.
My **** hung, my nipples on fire with the cruelty of the clamps. I didn’t know if I felt pleasure but I felt agony. I raged and struggled and fought against him, but he was too strong and easily he used me.
I broke, finally, crying, great heaving sobs of pain, falling weakly over the seat, the curve cutting into my belly as he ****** me for his sole pleasure. I felt him pound into me until his *** poured out and he cried out with release.
I was sure we were seen, but beneath the veil of my hair, I couldn’t see anything. He shot his load and fell back into the seat, taking me with him so that I sat on his lap, writhing with the feel of the spring loaded clamps against my nipples.
Drool fell down my chin and I understood then the powerlessness of my submission. It was shameful and degrading. I had no resistance and what I had shown was pathetic.
Stephen took my wrists into one of his hands and then stroked my **** with the other. I whimpered softly and spread my legs. It wasn’t so much pleasurable as it was satisfying. Open, naked, spread for him, I felt satisfied, in thrall. It was a moment that seemed perfect in its decadence.
"If you’re a good girl and . . ." he caught his breath, " and don’t touch your nipples, and you let me whip you, I’ll take the clamps off. Otherwise, I’m going to put them on your ****, perhaps one on your **** and one on a lip."
I shook my head vehemently "No!" and nodded. "Get up," he whispered and I shakily stood. "Bend over the seatback."
I understood the instructions. Stephen pulled his belt out and I felt tears of fear already pouring down my cheeks. This would hurt so badly.
The belt whistled through the air and struck my *** hard. I screamed into my gag, shuddered and hadn’t caught my breath when the belt struck again. My *** bobbed as I danced under the onslaught of the belt, but still it struck, again and again, until I had to cling to the seatback in order not to land on my knees.
I sobbed, hard, begging behind my gag, until I was at Stephen’s feet, clinging to him, pleading inarticulately, but desperately for mercy.
He must have known then that I’d reached my limit, because he reached down and lifted me into his lap. Gently, he took my aching *** in his hand and removed a clamp.
The shock of the blood flowing back into my nipple made me cry out and arch against him, fighting him. The next clamp came off quickly and I passed out from the pain, the last thing I could remember feeling was his fingers slipping into my ****, making me *** even as the pain yanked me from consciousness.
I awoke, slowly and awkwardly. The movie was still playing, or rather some movie was playing. I was in Stephen’s arms, my legs draped over the arm of the seat, my head on his shoulder. His pants were still undone, and his chest seemed damp and chilled.
Slapping a hand over my mouth, I looked to see if the people down below had heard me. It was a different crowd.
"Did the lights go on! Did anyone see me!" I gasped, fully expecting, really, for Stephen to say ‘No." instead, he answered, "Yes."
I gasped whispered my denials. And he explained, softly, his fingers stroking my face. "No lights, but the couple down front saw us. He gave me thumbs up and flashed the woman’s **** at me."
"He what!" I couldn’t fathom what he was saying. Stephen laughed, "He opened her blouse and flashed me."
"Oh, God," I moaned and started to try and get up.
"I didn’t return the favor," Stephen whispered soothingly and I realized that I was draped with his shirt. I clutched the fabric to me and wanted to crawl in a hole.
"I’m so ashamed," the admission was sincere, wrenching and painful.
"Now you know how I feel," Stephen taunted. "I’d be giving a sermon and you’d smile at your children or flip your hair out of your face and my **** would twitch and stiffen."
"And now you’ve gotten it out of your system," I offered, my voice strained and despairing. I hated how pathetic I sounded.
"Not really. No." Stephen answered.
"Where next? The alley? Backseat of your car?" My voice was bleak, not at all teasing.
"I left the car at home and took the bus," he answered.
"Not on a bus–please, not a bus!" I was begging and felt like a damn fool. I was here voluntarily. If I didn’t want to do it on a bus, it was my choice, but if he ordered me to, what could I do?
"I wasn’t thinking of a bus," Stephen admitted neutrally. He went on carefully but haltingly,"I was wondering, really. . . At least I was thinking. . ." Now he sounded awkward, entirely unsure. I looked up, catching his face in the flickering light of the movie. He looked serious, nervous even.
"You might very well choose to have nothing further to do with me, however. . . um. . . I have a bed. In my home. Or at my cabin. Private. Just you and me. If you’re interested."
"My god, you’re nervous." I found the accusation empowering and Stephen nodded.
"As I said, lovers or *******, it’s your choice."
I thought about it.
I had thought about it.
"I can’t do an affair. Sneaking around. Sneaking around like this."
He nodded but said nothing.
"I mean. I can’t just. . . just ****. How can you say that word so easily?"
Unexpectedly, Stephen turned and breathed against my throat, "It’s one of my favorite words. . . fuuhhck." It was a caress and I nuzzled against him.
"You can’t have an affair, either, you’re a preacher."
"I was thinking, more like a date."
His voice sounded strangled. I sat up, trying to be dignified, which is nearly impossible when one is naked with a butt plug in one’s bottom.
"You’re asking me on a date?""I believe I am," Stephen admitted and picked up his glasses from the seat next to us.
"And you’re afraid I’ll say ‘No’?"
"Precisely. How astute of you." He sounded peeved and I smiled.
"Have I said ‘No’ yet?" I taunted squirming with both the discomfort of the plug and the sense of power it gave me.
"No. Not yet."
I thought for a moment. How many times would I get to be in this position–power–with this man? Enjoy it while I can, I thought. "No more alligator teeth. Plain vanilla clamps, please."
"Done," he answered and threw the clamps and chain over the balcony. A voice rose up in protest from below, "Hey!" then after a moment, "Hey thanks!"
"And I don’t want a date at another **** theatre."
"What? You don’t like great uncle Walt’s movie palace?"
"Your uncle owns this place?" I repeated incredulously.
"Great uncle. Franchise. And how do you think I knew where to hide?"
"You could come over to dinner." I suggested. Either the kids would scare him off or they wouldn’t.
"Funny. Your kids suggested that ages ago."
"My kids? Suggested that?"
"Well, your kids and my kids strongly suggested it some time ago."
"Why didn’t you?"
"I figured you’d turn a preacher down. Boring."
I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. "I’m a thief."
"My brother is a lawyer. We’ll worry about that later. If you get caught."
"No confessions?" I asked curious.
"Hell no! This state doesn’t allow conjugal visits!"
We laughed at that and Stephen fondled my breasts. I sighed with pleasure. "I didn’t know I was a sub until you," I announced, quite pleased with my use of the vernacular.
"I, on the other hand, have always been a dom," Stephen replied and eased me off his lap and, surprisingly, helping me dress.
"How does a preacher become a dom?" I asked, utterly astonished.
"I told you, I wasn’t always a preacher."
I looked up, eyes narrowed, "Um, what were you before?"
Stephen folded his arms and sighed, "Can’t I tell you this over breakfast sometime?"
"Nope," I declared firmly, knowing he was being generous with his patience. "I wanna know now."
"United States Navy. Captain. Fighter pilot. Retired. Satisfied?"
I thought for a moment, "I wanna be your permanent port of call. . . I think."
He smiled then and took my arm heading towards the stairs rather quickly. I stumbled trying to follow and looked up at him in confusion. He grinned. "I feel the need to dock a ship, drop anchor, RIGHT NOW!"
"Well there’s a floor," I nodded down.
He stopped, looked down and shoved me to the floor, "Baby, spread your legs cause I’m gonna show you my tail hook. . ."