It was Mr. Thomas Dunn, in the library, with the book. Her
best friend, Lori, kept saying. “If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t have this
stupid bee in your bonnet about this whole BDSM thing!” and she was probably
right. It was quiet, polite, balding and bespectacled Mr. Dunn coming into her
library looking for “ The Erotic Bondage Handbook ” who had created an
itch she couldn’t quite scratch, who had set her, unwittingly, down this very
path, a long and winding road that now ended with Katie sobbing uncontrollably,
naked, on her knees, and choking on a ball-gag.
Katie
learned everything from books—she always had. She supposed most librarians did.
So while it started with her own copy of “ The Erotic Bondage Handbook ,”
it didn’t end there. She moved on to more titillating fare quite quickly, from
Anne Rice’s novels, written under a pseudonym, of course—there was always an
air of the obscene about the topic, no matter where she turned—to “The Story
of O.”
She couldn’t
seem to get enough of the commanding Doms, the bright red spankings, the
maddening restraints and there was something about the allure of a flogger that
promised to sting like bees and fall like rain on the tender, untouched terrain
of her pale white flesh that left her breathless and desperate, twisted in her
sheets at night, crying out with longing.
And then she
started going to the BDSM Internet sites. At first it was just to glean
information, and then, she had to admit, to meet people. Maybe there was
someone out there, someone local, who might be interested in teaching her?
Because more than anything, Katie wanted to learn. She wanted to be the one on
her knees in front of her master, following his lead, giving herself over
completely to his desires.
Well she’d
gotten what she wanted, and as Lori, from whose mouth dripped the most tried
and true clichés, had warned before she went to meet Patrick for this
first-ever play-date, “You should be careful what you wish for!” Lori was also
full of stories about serial killers who posted ads on Craiglist just like
Patrick’s, psychos looking for their next eager, willing victim. Lori had been
sure that Katie was doing this at her own peril.
And Lori had
turned out to be absolutely correct.
Once Katie
was naked and shackled and gagged, she’d discovered something she didn’t
expect—she was afraid. This man wasn’t a psycho. He’d made her sign an agreement,
they’d negotiated a safeword and limits, they’d worked out the scene, just
exactly what he would do to and for her. She knew she was taking some risks. She
was, after all, in his basement, in a soundproof, padded room—but it was a
nice, suburban house with a picket fence for god’s sake! And Lori knew where
she was and why she had come. She had safeguards.
So why was
she trembling with fear?
As Patrick
plucked equipment off the wall—a crop, a flogger, things they’d discussed—she suddenly
realized her mistake. She didn’t trust him. For whatever reason, she didn’t
trust this man to take her where she needed to go. In fact, she was quite sure
that he couldn’t, that this, whatever it was they were playing at, was wrong.
After all her anticipation and dreaming about this moment, she knew, as Lori
would say, “with every fiber of her being,” that she needed to stop.
She knew her
safeword—she’d had it in her head for months and had told Patrick what she
wanted to use—but she couldn’t say it because the red ball gag in her mouth
made her effectively silent. He’d given her clear instructions though on how to
“tap out” if she was gagged—three short taps on the mat and the scene would
end. Except her hands were restrained above her head. And she was sure Patrick
hadn’t anticipated her wanting to end things before they even really began!
Patrick
turned toward her, tall and lanky, a handsome specimen of man in his snakeskin
boots and leather pants, his shirtless chest smooth, his
best friend, Lori, kept saying. “If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t have this
stupid bee in your bonnet about this whole BDSM thing!” and she was probably
right. It was quiet, polite, balding and bespectacled Mr. Dunn coming into her
library looking for “ The Erotic Bondage Handbook ” who had created an
itch she couldn’t quite scratch, who had set her, unwittingly, down this very
path, a long and winding road that now ended with Katie sobbing uncontrollably,
naked, on her knees, and choking on a ball-gag.
Katie
learned everything from books—she always had. She supposed most librarians did.
So while it started with her own copy of “ The Erotic Bondage Handbook ,”
it didn’t end there. She moved on to more titillating fare quite quickly, from
Anne Rice’s novels, written under a pseudonym, of course—there was always an
air of the obscene about the topic, no matter where she turned—to “The Story
of O.”
She couldn’t
seem to get enough of the commanding Doms, the bright red spankings, the
maddening restraints and there was something about the allure of a flogger that
promised to sting like bees and fall like rain on the tender, untouched terrain
of her pale white flesh that left her breathless and desperate, twisted in her
sheets at night, crying out with longing.
And then she
started going to the BDSM Internet sites. At first it was just to glean
information, and then, she had to admit, to meet people. Maybe there was
someone out there, someone local, who might be interested in teaching her?
Because more than anything, Katie wanted to learn. She wanted to be the one on
her knees in front of her master, following his lead, giving herself over
completely to his desires.
Well she’d
gotten what she wanted, and as Lori, from whose mouth dripped the most tried
and true clichés, had warned before she went to meet Patrick for this
first-ever play-date, “You should be careful what you wish for!” Lori was also
full of stories about serial killers who posted ads on Craiglist just like
Patrick’s, psychos looking for their next eager, willing victim. Lori had been
sure that Katie was doing this at her own peril.
And Lori had
turned out to be absolutely correct.
Once Katie
was naked and shackled and gagged, she’d discovered something she didn’t
expect—she was afraid. This man wasn’t a psycho. He’d made her sign an agreement,
they’d negotiated a safeword and limits, they’d worked out the scene, just
exactly what he would do to and for her. She knew she was taking some risks. She
was, after all, in his basement, in a soundproof, padded room—but it was a
nice, suburban house with a picket fence for god’s sake! And Lori knew where
she was and why she had come. She had safeguards.
So why was
she trembling with fear?
As Patrick
plucked equipment off the wall—a crop, a flogger, things they’d discussed—she suddenly
realized her mistake. She didn’t trust him. For whatever reason, she didn’t
trust this man to take her where she needed to go. In fact, she was quite sure
that he couldn’t, that this, whatever it was they were playing at, was wrong.
After all her anticipation and dreaming about this moment, she knew, as Lori
would say, “with every fiber of her being,” that she needed to stop.
She knew her
safeword—she’d had it in her head for months and had told Patrick what she
wanted to use—but she couldn’t say it because the red ball gag in her mouth
made her effectively silent. He’d given her clear instructions though on how to
“tap out” if she was gagged—three short taps on the mat and the scene would
end. Except her hands were restrained above her head. And she was sure Patrick
hadn’t anticipated her wanting to end things before they even really began!
Patrick
turned toward her, tall and lanky, a handsome specimen of man in his snakeskin
boots and leather pants, his shirtless chest smooth, his
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