Friday, Outside Sir’s Front Door: Marta

Before I could lose my nerve, I fitted the ball gag into my mouth, tightened the strap behind my head, being careful not to catch my hair in it, then clicked the small padlock shut in the strap’s D-shaped metal tongue at the back. I looked back down the hallway. I hadn’t seen anyone since I got out of the elevator, and there were only two doorways between Sir’s door and there, but I was nervous. Shivering, I pulled the borrowed sweatshirt over my head, and dropped the sweatpants down to my ankles, then pulled them off.

I was completely naked now, except for the leather cuffs padlocked around both ankles and both wrists, plus the dog’s collar padlocked around my neck, and the ball-gag locked around my head.

I picked up the butt plug with the heart jewel on the end, and turned the switch so that it was vibrating at the highest level, cycling from nothing to very high and back again. Bending slightly, I cautiously fitted it into my ass, twisting it into my already lubed-up back passage. When it was properly seated, I could feel the vibrations running through my ass and into my cunt. I swallowed hard; I was getting awfully wet, awfully fast.

I knelt down in front of his door, carefully folded the sweatpants and sweatshirt in front of me, then put my note on top, and a small box of razor blades next to it. I picked up the extra-long dildo, switched it to the highest setting, and carefully pushed it into my, by-now sopping, cunt, then rested its butt on the floor so that the dildo was pushed all the way up to my cervix, forcing me to sit up.

Next, I put my feet together, turned and locked the two ankle cuffs together, fixing my ankles to each other, then spread my knees wide so my cunt and the dildo were exposed. The two vibrators were out of synch, and I was starting to tremble, both with arousal and outright nervousness. What if he rejected me?

I reached down, picked up the blindfold, slipped it over my head, but not over my eyes, then reached up and rang his doorbell.

I had to work quickly now. I pulled the blindfold over my eyes, then reached my hands together behind me, and, after fumbling slightly because my hands were shaking, I was able to lock both wrist cuffs together.

I was now completely helpless, naked, kneeling, bound, gagged, and blindfolded outside his front door, in a public hallway in his condo building, being humiliated by the dildo vibrating in my cunt, and the butt plug vibrating in my ass.

I hope he answers the door quickly…

Six Days Earlier: Marta

When I woke, I was groggy, and ached. My ass was bruised from being spanked with a ping-pong paddle, but worse, my anus and rectum burned from the habanero chili oil that had been shoved up them. My clit burned, also from the chili oil he had applied to it, as well as my tits. The burning sensations I felt now were a small echo of what I’d experienced earlier because Sir had carefully washed all of the oil off as best he could, using dish detergent, milk, and then olive oil. I suspected they would continue to burn for days to come, but it was a manageable level of pain, and I welcomed it.

But these were almost insignificant compared to thoughts that were running through my mind.

First, I have begged for mercy, crying out “red light”, letting Sir know that he had done something I thought was impossible: hurt me more than I could take, or than I wanted.

But even more importantly, he had understood me, and cared enough for me that he had given me what I needed – the punishment that I craved – yet, done so with such extreme care that I was unharmed. As he said, he had hurt me, but he had not harmed me. In this perverse – perverted? – act, he had shown more affection and understanding for me than anyone I had ever known.

And I didn’t even know his name.

Yet, the most unbelievable thing that had happened last night was he had asked me to marry him. I could neither understand nor process what that meant, why he’d done it, and whether he was sincere. I shelved that, not knowing what to do with it, or what to think about it, but it scared me.

I sat up, gingerly, careful of my hurting body. I was also stiff from straining against the bonds he’d placed on me, and suspected I would be hoarse from screaming into the gag he’d placed in my mouth. I looked around.

There, on the bed, neatly folded, were my panties and bra. Hanging from the door to the bathroom was the dress I’d worn last night. My purse was next to the bra and panties, as were my necklace, earrings, and my smartphone.

“Hi.”

I jumped slightly. It was his voice.

“How are you feeling?”

He was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, fully clothed in a banded, collarless Navy blue shirt and khaki slacks. He looked tired and concerned.

“I’m – fine. Actually, I lie: my ass hurts, and I burn where you intended me to burn. But…” I looked down, then up again, “But thank you. I want you to know how much I appreciate being given what I needed, to have you do it so carefully, and…and for saying you love me?”

I ended the sentence as a query.

He nodded. “You’re welcome. I enjoyed hurting you, but I think I’m going to enjoy loving you even more.” And he smiled. “Now,” he said briskly, moving on, “Your time as my slave is over. In fact, I owe you some hours. It’s going on four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, and you only promised to do what I said until noon.

“What would you like to do now? I am at your disposal. Your wish is my command.” And his smile broadened.

Suddenly, I was feeling panicky, unsure of myself, of him, of what – we – might be or become. No one had ever said they loved me before, and it scared me, badly. “I think I’d like to leave now. Right now.”

The smile faded, and he looked sad, but said, “Of course. May I suggest that I lend you some clothes, rather than have you try to get into that very formal, and rather tight, dress? We’re close in size, and while I don’t have anything suitable for a beautiful woman, I can lend you sweatpants and a sweatshirt, which might be more comfortable for you in your present state.”

I nodded, really not caring, and disappeared into the bathroom. After using the facilities, I peeked out of the door, suddenly shy about showing myself to him. The sweatpants and shirt were laid out on the bed, and he was nowhere in sight, so I opened the door, quickly jumped across, grabbed the sweats and jumped back into the bathroom, closing the door firmly.

Shortly thereafter, I walked out, scooping up my earrings, necklace, bra, panties, and cellphone, and dumping them in my purse, then walking towards his front door.

“I’ve called you a car, and it’s prepaid for anywhere in the city. Or I could cancel it, and it would be my pleasure to drive you home. Your choice,” he said.

I swallowed, then said, “Would you please drive me?”

He smiled. “I would be delighted. I’ll just cancel the car.” He pulled out his phone, made a few taps, then returned it to his pocket.

“Let’s go.”

He led me to the elevator, and, when it came, pressed B for basement. The doors opened, and he led me to a red, sporty, two-seater. It might have been the one I rode here in last night, although that could have been a dump truck for all I noticed. Holding the door, he said, “Careful not to bang your head as you get in.”

We drove in silence, with me giving directions as needed, but otherwise looking straight ahead.

When we got to my condo, he got out, opened the door and handed me out, like some kind of fairy tale princess, then took my hand and kissed it.

“May I call you?”

I was trembling by this time, and didn’t know why.

“Perhaps – with your permission – you’d let me call you first?” My voice sounded very high and almost squeaky.

“You don’t need my permission ever again, unless you want it. Here’s my number.”

He handed me a card. It was most peculiar as all it said was “Sir”, then the address and phone number. I guessed he’d done it on his laser printer, specially for me.

“Please don’t lose it.”

Then he leaned in and kissed me – on the cheek – then got back into his motor and drove quickly away.

I stood on the walkway outside my condo, naked under his sweat clothes, and remembered what he had done to my body and my mind. I shivered.

I turned and walked into my condo building.

An Anguished Decision: Marta

I spent the balance of Saturday, and most of Sunday wandering around my condo, unable to focus. Then, suddenly, on Sunday afternoon, an idea hit me, and I hurried to my study, pulling out my longhand notes, and found the flaw in my reasoning, a mistaken assumption that I had overlooked. I circled it, and scribbled some additional thoughts, then shoved the papers back in the drawer.

I didn’t know how I had just realized the answer to the problem that had been driving me crazy for months, but it was suddenly just – there. I should have been pleased over something that might turn out to be a major insight, but instead it seemed a distraction from my other thoughts.

I decided to go for a walk, so went to put on some more suitable clothes instead of the nightgown I was still wearing. Instead, I found myself staring at his sweats, fingering them, and going ‘round and ‘round, reliving that night and morning.

Why had I acceded to his bizarre, obscene demand that I submit to him at the reception? I hadn’t known him – I still didn’t know him – and I had blown off men – and women – who had broached me far more delicately and politely.

Was I crazy? I often thought so, but this seemed extreme, even for me.

Yet, it was the way he had berated me that had reached inside me. And something else, something I couldn’t quite put a finger on. The same something that allowed me to become – intimate – with him later on. A gestalt of his personality, something that radiated off of him that traduced something similar within me.

I only know that if he had approached me in a traditional way, I would have blown him off, and gone home alone.

Would that have been better?

The thought arose unbidden: No!

What had happened to me was something I knew I would remember forever – and fondly, with longing.

So, why couldn’t I call him? Why was I petrified? What was stopping me?

I decided to ask Kelly.

The Dead Roommate: Marta

Kelly had been my roommate from the start at university. She shared my curse – or curses. She was beautiful, in a girl-next-door kind of way, with blonde, corn-silk hair, and the boobs I had always wanted. She had been a cheerleader in high school, and looked it. But she had also graduated first in her high school class, and was enrolled as a physics major at Cornell. She was what we called a “Brainiac,” as was I.

But because of our looks, our classmates, almost exclusively boys, plus our professors and TAs, had treated us as airheads. Worse, many of them, including some of the profs, tried groping us. But they only tried once. Each. Unfortunately, there were a lot of them.

We made a pact that we would have each other’s backs, always, and that we would make these assholes look stupid. We outworked, out-studied, and out-thought all of them – including the professors. We competed, neck-and-neck for top of our class, and made it, Kelly #1, me #2 – by a fraction of a percent. I bought the beer when we celebrated.

We also commiserated about our lack of success with men. The decent ones were afraid to ask us out because we were (wait for it) too beautiful. The assholes were convinced we had round heels, and were panting for it.

Occasionally, one or the other of us would get a date with a guy who looked like a candidate. It was usually a bust, but we depended on each other for reactions unclouded by hormones. We usually arranged to be alone with the other’s date before they went out, telling him that she was fixing her make-up or some such. In that period of time, we could often gauge whether the guy was a “keeper or a creeper,” as we put it. Then, when the other returned, we would give a high-sign, or a thumbs-down.

We were never wrong. And it saved both our sanities.

Then Kelly was killed on campus. He was never found.

I stopped going out, stopped accepting dates of any kind, and avoided being out after dark, or in uncrowded places. I became the Ice Queen, focused exclusively on my work, and dismissive of men. And boys, who were more common.

But whenever I wanted advice on a tough personal question, I would invoke Kelly, talk to her as if she were there. And, almost invariably, I would hear her voice in my head. So, I decided to ask Kelly.

“Hey, Kell, it’s me. I’m really messed up this time.”

“You mean Sir, right?”

“Right. He scares the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, but you scared the shit out of him, too.”

I shrugged. “So he says. What the hell do I do? And I don’t just mean about him asking me to marry him. I mean the whole thing, the dominance-submissive thing. I don’t have time for this kind of crap!”

“I call bullshit, Marty. The only reason you don’t have time for this kind of crap is that you’ve engineered your entire life to make sure you don’t have time for it. Now something really good happens to you, and you want to make excuses? Puhlleeessee…”

I was silent. “Was it really good?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but he…”

“Stuff it. Did he do anything to you that you didn’t allow? Did he do anything that you ultimately didn’t like?”

I thought about it. “Drinking my own piss was pretty awful…”

“Really. What was your response when he asked if you liked it?”

“I told him no, quite emphatically!”

“And when he asked if it turned you on?”

I was still.

“Yeah, thought so. You didn’t like it, but you wanted it. Don’t blame him for that. How about when he shoved his dick down your throat?”

“Typical male domination fantasy,” I said, dismissively.

“Absolutely right. Which you knew. AND you knew it would turn him on, didn’t you?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I did.”

“And let’s not forget about your persistent need to be punished and hurt. You hide it well, mostly, but it’s always there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I reluctantly admitted. “It is.”

“So, did he or did he not give you what exactly you wanted, what you’ve been desperately looking for, for practically ever?”

I nodded slowly (knowing she couldn’t see me, but still…).

“And, outside of the sex-play you were both doing, was he, or was he not, a perfect gentleman? And didn’t you feel safe entrusting yourself, your body, your well-being to him? Or, put it another way, was there any time you didn’t feel safe?”

I thought about it carefully. Right from the start, the cues were there. His insistence that I put my seat-belt on. His giving me the choice to just walk away once we were in his apartment. He having me blow my nose after he had been fucking my mouth. His massaging my shoulders and arms after untying me.

In fact, everything he did, he did with care. In very direct, physical terms, he had cared for me!

"Shit, Kell I think I’ve blown it! I had what I wanted, and scared him away! Dammit!"

“Not yet, you haven’t kid. Call him!”

“But…”

“Dammit, Marty, if you don’t call him, I’ll never speak to you again!”

I laughed involuntarily. “You aren’t speaking to me now.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Marty. I really didn’t mean to get killed and leave you alone.”

I started to tear up again. I, who hadn’t cried since I was in grade school, even when my parents died, was crying all the time now. I was an unholy mess all of a sudden.

“And you know why, don’t you! It’s him. For fuck’s sake, Marty, CALL HIM!”

I took a deep breath, picked up the card in front of me, and punched the number before I could chicken out.

The Call: Sir

“Hello.”

Silence at the other end.

“Hello?”

“Sir?”

I exhaled deeply. “Marta! I was scared to death you wouldn’t call.”

There was a long pause, then, “So was I.”

Another long pause. I thought for a moment, then said, “So, are you going to throw me back, hoping for something better?”

She snorted (which I’d hoped she’d do), and said, “I’m not sure there is something better. Certainly, more than ten years of looking hasn’t turned any up. I’d like to see you again. May I, please, Sir?”

“Yes, you may. Whenever you want. Name it.”

There was a long pause. “May I come over to your condo this Friday evening, please, Sir?”

“You don’t want to meet somewhere on neutral territory? There is a lot I have to tell you, starting with my name.”

Another pause. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like you to fuck me and treat me like your slave at least for Friday, without telling me anything more about you. Then you can tell me the rest on Saturday. Would that be OK?”

I felt my cock stiffen. “More than OK. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“I’ll arrive at 7, and probably cum at 7:05.”

I threw back my head and laughed. “You will if I think you deserve it. I’ll tell Joe to send you right up. You won’t have to figure out who I am from the call board. You know where my condo is.”

I paused for a moment.

“And Marta…”

“Sir?”

“Remember how you played with yourself before I used the chili oil you on Saturday?”

There was a pause, then a cautious, “Yes…”

“I want you to masturbate like that every night until Friday, so you reach that state of wantonness. But you are not, under any circumstances, to cum before I allow it. Do you understand me?”

A long pause. “Yes, Sir, but I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I can get that excited and then not cum.”

“You will, because if you do cum, I will know it, and will close my door and send you home. Understand?”

There was what sounded like a gulp, and then a very small voice, “Sir.”

“Then I will see you – all of you – Friday. And one last thing…”

“Sir?”

“I want you wet, and eager to please me.”

And hung up.

I sat back and marvelled. How had this happened to me? And how do I avoid fucking it up?

Friday would tell.