March 9th
When we awoke, both Sir Patrick and Jacinta were gone. It was just Grahame and I, alone in that big hotel room. Warm and cozy under the comforter, I stretched my arms across the king-size bed but couldn’t feel his taut body next to mine.
“Happy Panic Day!” he said as my eyes flickered awake. He was fully dressed, watching me while sitting in the chair he’d tied me to the night before.
“Huh?” I was still half asleep.
“March 9th. Panic Day. Don’t tell me you weren’t aware.”
I closed my eyes. If the last few holidays hadn’t aroused panic, I couldn’t imagine what would. It turned out I wouldn’t have to wonder for long.
“Get dressed.”
“I can’t. Don’t you remember? You tore my dress last night.”
“And I had the chauffeur go home and pick out another set of clothing. Get moving. Meet me in the restaurant downstairs. We need to talk. And celebrate.” And with that, he left the room.
Talk? That sounded ominous. I looked over at the clock. Noon. Last night must have been more exhausting than I’d imagined. I never slept this late.
I took a quick shower, threw on the slinky, low-cut dress that the driver had delivered, put on some makeup, and headed down to Chez Nous, the hotel’s restaurant, for lunch.
I’d heard about Chez Nous; how very exclusive it was, how each u-shaped booth was separated from the others, so that the elite could dine without the stares of onlookers and other uninvited interruptions. I’d read in some hoity-toity rag about how no waiter would bother you until you pressed an intercom button at your table, indicating you were ready to order, or to have the next course be served. I’d never dreamt I would find myself dining there one day.
The waiter immediately recognized me and led me to a booth in the back, pulling open the curtain to reveal an already-seated Grahame. I wasn’t stupid. With a holiday called ‘Panic Day’, I was sure that the curtain was not about to be opened again or the order button pushed anytime soon. Not only did Grahame love practically-public play, which encompassed the ever-present risk of being discovered in some form of undress, he also liked to take his time with me, allowing nothing to interrupt our session together. Not until he was finished with me. Completely finished.
I sat down and looked across the table, past the candles and the orchids, and into his bright green eyes. They disquieted me, as they always did. But I knew if I dared look away, things would go harshly for me later, so I locked my stare onto his, awaiting his words with trepidation...resignation...and hunger.
“Close your eyes,” he commanded, much to my surprise.
He often blindfolded me at home when we had one of our ‘talks’, but he had never conducted such a session outside. He said that lack of sight, coupled with bondage-inspired lack of movement, would ensure his words traveled much deeper, right into the depths of my soul. And he was right; his words rooted themselves into my subconscious and captivated me during the hours we spent apart each week.
I closed my eyes and waited, appropriately panicked by the fear that I might have disappointed him in some way the night before. I knew better than to disturb the silence. He had often left me with a painful reminder of that particular infraction. Suddenly, I realized why the booth had become so quiet, and I quickly adjusted myself—hands underneath my butt, thighs separated, lips left slightly open. I braced myself, knowing that I would be made to atone for such an unforgivable oversight. Damn! After all these months, how could I have forgotten?
I heard him chuckle and pictured him planning my penalties, a small smile spreading across his lips as it always did when he decided in which fashion to mete out my penance. He waited a few more moments, making me truly own my anxiousness, before his lecture began.
“Today, to celebrate Panic Day, you will have a treat, my love—the reward of choice,” he whispered slowly into my ear. “You won’t be allowed to hide behind the security of your patented ‘Whatever you wish, Master, whatever you like’ answers. Instead, you’ll order your own treatment, much as I’ll order our lunch from the menu. Does that please you, love?”
I knew I did not have to speak, the way I fidgeted in place would be answer enough. His voice, his words cascaded across my skin, leaving shivers in their wake.
He placed his finger under my chin and lifted my face. Grahame always seemed to know what to do to deepen my experience, and he never held back, always stretching my limits. I tried to remain still.
“Last night, your initial impertinence disappointed me. Especially in front of our guest. You must atone, learn your lesson. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Sir.” I felt my stomach sink.
“So when we leave the restaurant...when I take you outside...would you prefer that I begin your punishment in the alley behind the building, or shall I wait until we get you into the back of the limo?” he asked, matter-of-factly, as if he were taking project notes.
I hesitated for just a moment, figuring the hesitation, in this case, would be permissible as I evaluated my choices. “The limo, Sir.” The words came out slowly, almost wrenched from my lips.
“Excuse me?” was his harsh reply.
I immediately corrected myself. “Please begin my punishment in the limo, Master.”
“Hmmm, of course, my dear, I would be happy to punish you in the limo as per your most polite request. But tell me, why is the limo your choice?”
I could feel goosebumps rise on my arms from the ominous and patronizing tone of his voice.
“Master, I beg you to begin my punishment in the limo because there will be less chance of interruption, and I know how you dislike interruption.”
His finger moved from my chin and begin to slowly caress my cheek. “Good answer, love,” he murmured approvingly.
I leaned my head toward his sweet touch, and he did not reprimand the movement. For the moment, I was his pet, and I was enjoying his praise.
“When we get into the limo,” he continued, moving his finger down to trace the outside of my lips, “shall I use ropes or chains to bind your wrist cuffs to the hook I’ve affixed to the ceiling?” The tone of voice, so matter-of-factly creating the scene in my mind, increased my wetness, which had started from the moment I’d joined him in the booth. His finger continued tracing my mouth, awaiting my answer.
“Ahhh...it is a hard decision, Sir. I know you love how little give comes with the rope but also how you enjoy the clanking of the chains. Perhaps one of each, Sir?”
“Mmm...you bring up a good point, love. Both choices are rather delicious for me. I think the rope though. We don’t want you to have any give at all today. And we’ll save the chain for your collar. Would that be to your liking, pet?”
“Yes, Master, please use the rope on my wrist cuffs and the chain on my collar as you punish me in the limo.” I smiled inwardly, pleased that I remembered the rule to reiterate the lesson as completely as possible at each turn.
His hand moved from my lips down to my areola, making tiny, maddeningly exciting circles. The other hand joined his explorations, each circling a breast, and then zeroing in on my areola and then my nipple, which he pinched and tugged at firmly through the silk of my dress, as he loved to do. I found it almost impossible to stay still, my breath becoming more slow and deliberate, my head and back arching slightly, giving him better access.
“My love, your enthusiasm is so very infectious, you are getting me quite eager to begin with you. But there are a few more points we must clarify, so you can receive the punishment you have so eloquently requested. Would you prefer I cut your clothes off with my hunting knife, or with my shears?”
The visual took me by surprise and I gasped before contemplating my response. I knew the knife would take longer, and that he liked to prolong my torture. “The knife,” I murmured.
I was rewarded for my speedy reply by his fingers moving down to my thighs and then slowing moving inward, one hand invading my pussy while the other began a slow and intense massage of my clit.
I moaned with pleasure. In spite of the lessons he’d taught me to remain still at such intrusions, I risked certain punishment by spreading my legs as far as the booth seat would allow. I tensed my thigh muscles, trying to will on the orgasm that I knew he would never permit me to enjoy—at least not so quickly and so easily.
He continued a few moments longer, teasing me with the pleasure I yearned for. But then, as I knew they would, the fingers stopped their dance, but stayed poised on their respective targets as he restarted his interrogation.
“One last thing, my pet, and I want you to think about this one carefully, considering the alternatives over lunch before answering me during dessert. Will you do that for me, darling?”
“Yes, Master,” I replied, trying unsuccessfully to squeeze my legs together to force his fingers back into motion.
“Tell me, sweet one, in the limo, so very private and free from interruption, as your wrists are bound overhead with no give, and your ripped clothes tossed aside, shall I gag you first and force myself up your tight little cunt, or shall I place a dildo there and another up your ass while I shove my cock down your throat?”
And before I could get out the gasp that his question provoked, he quickly removed his hands from between my legs and rammed the left one deep into my mouth, forcing me to suck my juices from his fingers, and telling me, in no uncertain terms, what he wished my answer to be.
As he slowly removed his digits from my lips, I heard him use the other hand to ring for the waiter and tell the intercom in a most calm and commanding tone, “We are ready for our check now.”
“But we didn’t eat.”
“Food will have to wait. We have something more important to take care of, don’t we?”
Grahame paid the cover charge, left a hefty tip, and led me out of the restaurant and back up to the hotel room.
“I don’t understand…what about the limo?”
“Oh, that. That was just to commemorate Panic Day. And you looked pretty panicked, so I believe we did it up in style. No, I thought we’d spend the rest of the day making up for the fact that we missed celebrating Trivia Day back on January 25th.”
“Trivia Day?”
“Yes, I know how much you love trivia, being part of a competitive team and all, so I invited a few friends up to challenge you.”
“Friends? People I know?”
“You don’t know them yet, but by this evening, I suspect you will know them better than most. They’ll be over in a few minutes, so you’d better get ready.”
“Ready how?”
“For one thing, you’re overdressed.” He smiled. “You’ve got exactly sixty seconds to get naked. For every second over sixty, you earn yourself a five-point deficit in the game.”
“Sixty seconds...starting when, Sir?”
Now his smile became much broader. “About fifteen seconds ago.”
I took a full five seconds to share a glance with him that, in my way, acknowledged his devious turn of scene, as well as to show my appreciation of his choice. He turned his attention from my eyes to his watch, and started studying the second hand, counting down from forty. I got to work, hurriedly slipping out of my dress and kicking off my shoes.
“Ta-da!” I said, standing before him naked, grinning in triumph as I finished the task just as he said three.
Without looking up, he asked, “Did you remember to hang the dress up in the closet, love?” And then he resumed counting. “Two, one, zero.”
My smile died quickly as I rushed to pick up the dress, yank open the closet door, pull out a hanger, and hang up the dress. Grahame continued counting, but he was merciful in that he counted slowly. Still, by the time I’d completed the task, he had reached negative ten.
“Done!” I said, but this time without as much hubris.
“Negative ten,” he repeated, dead-pan, as he gazed into my eyes.
“What happens now?”
“You’ve dug yourself quite a little hole, darling. You’re starting our friendly game of Trivial Pursuit with a bit of a deficit. The first two pie pieces you earn, you’ll have to throw back, I’m afraid.”
Before I could express just how unfair I found the entire process, which would no doubt earn me additional demerits, there was a rapping at the door and Grahame left to welcome our company into the suite. I heard some small talk and realized we had both male and female visitors.
“Kira, where are your manners? Please come out and greet our guests,” my Master ordered from the atrium.
Suddenly, I became uncomfortably aware of my nakedness. The chill of the realization made my full breasts stand at attention, my nipples hard as diamonds, accompanied by goosebumps that covered every inch of my body. Unwilling to incur any additional penalties, I took a deep breath, braced myself, and walked out to join my Master.
There were six people to be welcomed; three glamorous models, wearing collars as well as tight-fitting garb they were in the process of shedding, each accompanied by their no-nonsense Doms. The girls were of mixed variety—one African-American with an afro who introduced herself as Jackie, one redheaded Caucasian nicknamed Blaze, and one Asian girl with a long and lustrous head of black hair named Kiyoko. The women kept their stares downward, following classic submissive protocol. Their respective Doms, looking appropriately masterful and unamused, introduced themselves as Sir Matthew, Sir Michael, and Alexander the Great.
The girls were flawlessly trained, each assuming a posed position as soon as they joined me in nakedness. The men remained fully clothed and loaded, grasping small satchels that no doubt contained the collection of implements they planned to use to correct their partners’ potential infractions. All the makings of a typical suburban game night.
I smiled and greeted the three couples. The Doms looked me up and down with a condescending sneer. I wondered what I had done to earn such disdain until Grahame harrumphed, which signaled my misstep. I was unposed. But the guests didn’t have drinks in their hands, which created a dilemma—should I serve them or should I indicate my servitude to them? Another instance of Grahame’s favorite form of predicament play, since I was doomed, no matter which path I chose.
But on that particular afternoon, I wasn’t in a submissive mood, and I was determined to outwit them all. So I posed, and while staring toward the floor, I asked, “So, who’s up for drinks?”
I’m sure if I’d been looking up, I would have seen at least four looks of incredulity on the faces of the male guests as well as my Master. But screw it, what did I really have to lose? After all, I was going to blow them all away in Trivial Pursuit. I was no stranger to competitive trivia, and my team, the Darwinners, had won the national championships three years in a row. Even without Patsy, Brie, Chessie, and Marybeth, taking on these submissive trivia neophytes would be a piece of cake. I would redeem any earlier missteps with a win that would make Grahame proud.
“Gentlemen, you heard my sub’s question, unseemly as it might have been for one that is supposed to remain still and reticent in the presence of her superiors. We’ll rectify that shortly. In the meantime, what would you like to drink?” Grahame’s voice dripped with disgust, causing me to reconsider my earlier certainty that I could turn any issues around merely with a correct answer or two.
The three men decided on Jack Daniels and Grahame made it four. “You may use your hands to pour, Kira, but when you have finished, pose and I’ll instruct you on what to do next.” Then the Doms returned to their conversation.
Fair enough, I thought. He was looking past the impertinence and instead focusing on the bigger picture. Good. Things were going my way.
I strode across the room to the bar, perhaps a tad too cockily, and pulled out four tumblers. Into each, I poured two fingers of whiskey and then posed as directed, coughing a few times to capture my Dom’s attention.
Grahame walked over and pulled my hands behind my back, linking them together using a pair of steel handcuffs that I didn’t realized he’d brought with him. I wasn’t a huge fan of steel cuffs. They’re cold and unforgiving. Perhaps that was the reason he’d chosen them.
“Now, bring each of our guests their drinks,” he whispered in my ear. “Do not disappoint me or you will not appreciate the consequences, I assure you.”
“How the hell am I going…” I looked up at Grahame but one look at his expression and I thought better of it. No good could come from questioning the order. I didn’t even want to consider what he might do if I failed to deliver in front of his cadre of fellow Doms. At this point, it was a question of saving face…and my unscathed skin.
He walked back to the throng of Masters, who resumed their animated discourse as I stared at the glasses and considered my next move. I could grasp the edge of each glass with my teeth and bring them over one by one, but I’d likely be admonished for spreading germs and leaving lipstick smudges on the glass. Or I could try to grasp each tumbler with my hands, but the bar ledge was a few inches higher than the highest I could lift my secured arms behind my back. I was clearly screwed, and not in a good way.
I looked around the room, trying to figure out a solution to my dilemma, and was about to declare defeat when I saw a small ottoman in the corner. I walked past the subs, still statues waiting for direction, and then past the men, still actively embroiled in their Dom-con, and slowly kicked the ottoman a few inches at a time until I managed to position it close to the bar.
This must have captured the Doms’ attention, because the room became silent as I climbed up onto the cushion, my back facing the bar. I crouched down until I felt the glass, grabbed it, stood, and cautiously descended. Having accomplished the near-impossible, I proudly brought the first glass over to Alexander the Great.
“Impressive,” he mumbled as he took the glass from my handcuffed hands and pinched my ass in appreciation.
I repeated the stunt twice more until all three visiting Doms had whiskey in hand—each grabbing a nipple or tugging at a labia lip as their ‘tip’ to the server. Then it was time to bring Grahame his glass. He’d requested a double. By this time, having tackled the undoable task three times, I admit I was a bit smug in my ability to outwit the Dom. So much so that I decided to add a little showmanship to the act. Instead of cautiously stepping down from the ottoman with the whiskey in hand, I took a graceful, little, backward leap. Unfortunately, I landed wrong, falling in a heap on the floor, the glass of Jack Daniels flying across the carpet and landing in an amber-colored puddle. I tried to stifle my moan, which was less out of pain and was more over fear about what might happen next.
I looked up at Grahame expectantly. I knew that deep inside, he’d find this little snippet of slapstick quite amusing. But I also knew that he’d play to his audience and the expectation of his fellow Doms and come down very hard on me.
He glared at me and then stared at the stain growing in diameter on the beige Berber rug. “I have no interest in paying for damages, Kira,” he said in a snippy tone. “Lick it up. Every drop.”
Grahame knew I hated whiskey. But what I hated even more was being challenged to complete a task and then not ultimately triumphing. I turned myself around, a little sore from the fall, and walked over on my knees to where the glass had landed. Then I leaned forward and started sucking the liquor off every strand. Of course, the carpet fibers accompanied each slurp, making me choke just a bit, and fumes from the liquor made me dizzy, but after about ten minutes, I had sucked away most of the stain.
“You’ll deal with the rest of the damage later,” said Grahame who, in the meantime, had poured his own glass of Jack Daniels. “Get up and let’s start our game.”
It took a bit of maneuvering to stand up with my hands clasped behind me and not available for leverage, but I managed. As I rose, the room started spinning. Two shots of straight whiskey on an empty stomach will do that to you. I stumbled over to the dining room, where I joined the other girls, who were seated, blindfolded, and being bound to the chairs by their Doms. A Trivial Pursuit board and game pieces were assembled in the middle of the table. Grahame uncuffed me and pulled out the one remaining seat. I sat, spitting carpet fibers from my lips, praying to regain my wits about me. Using some coarse rope, he secured me to the seat and covered my eyes, leaving me as blind as my opponents.
“Kira, you’ve often bragged about how skilled you are at trivia. I’ve made a bet with our guests that you will win our little competition. I’m so confident, that I’ve wagered one thousand dollars. What do you say to that? Think you can win?”
“I’m sure, Sir.” Of course, I wasn’t sure. At this point, I was merely drunk. But being me, I refused to admit defeat.
“That’s fine. Here are the rules. Since you girls are somewhat indisposed, we’ll roll the dice for you. You can indicate if you want us to move your piece right or left. We’ll ask you the questions, and you will answer to the best of your ability. Answer incorrectly and not only will you forfeit your turn, but you’ll receive punishment in the form of strokes, the number of which will be based on the last roll of the dice. But answer correctly and two things will happen. Not only will you get the chance to answer again, but you can assign a punishment to one of the other girls at the table. Your choice. Just remember that they’ll be able to return the favor when they answer their questions correctly. The first sub to get six questions correct wins her Dom the one-thousand-dollar prize. Second prize wins her Dom five hundred dollars. Third prize wins her Dom two hundred and fifty dollars. And the loser? She will spend the remainder of the day pleasing the rest of the guests—and their subs—whether they wish to indulge their desire to experience pleasure or dole out pain. Does everyone understand and agree to these rules?”
The other three subs murmured their consent. There was a gnawing sense of dread clawing at my gut as I listened to the Doms unpacking their satchels of torture, each in turn announcing every item to the group. Quirts, whips, cattle prods—oh no, not again!—knives, canes, hairbrushes, and some items I had never heard of before, but in my mind’s eye, they looked ominous and painful.
“Kira, I don’t recall hearing your agreement,” Grahame said.
I looked up toward the sound of his voice. “Are you uthing all thandard Triwial Purthuit quethions?” I winced as I heard myself slur my words.
“You dare to question my honesty? My integrity?” His tone was sharp with feigned outrage.
Absolutely I do. I know you too well. “Of course not, Thir. Naturally, I agwee to all terms.”
I heard the dice hit the board, but even in my inebriated state, I knew the die had already been cast. I could already feel the welts on my skin, the soreness of all my orifices after being used all day for the pleasure of others. I resigned myself to the onslaught that was destined to follow as reparation for my ultimate offense, the sin of pride. When would I finally figure it out, admit to myself that I was Grahame Gaines’s sub, and until I acted like it, I would pay the price? Only time would tell.