Wild Things

SIMONE SHIELDS

 

“In the wild, animals have a way of getting together,” the blond man at my side said to me. I looked at him. Jennifer had sat me next to the anthropologist. I’d hoped to be seated by the director, the art gallery owner or possibly the writer. But no. I got the science geek. I prepared to be bored out of my skull, stifling a sigh as he began to preach. Sure peacocks preen. Bullfrogs croak. Was I going to have to listen to this all night?

He surprised me next by asking me what I do for a living, and I slowly felt myself warming up to him. Maybe he wouldn’t be one of those professor types who consider any audience a classroom, any piece of furniture in front of them a lectern.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on mine under the table. Although he appeared to be listening to me, my dinner partner had gripped both my wrists together in one of his large hands. I perked up considerably.

I have a knack for meeting men who like to tie girls up. That’s what my friends always say. They think it’s a gift, that I’ve been blessed with a kinky streak men can see, like the fan of feathers on a peacock’s tail. I beg to differ. (And, really, I beg a lot.) I think that if you know what you need, you can send out silent signals. There’s a way a sub looks at a dom that’s different from your average, everyday glance. I gaze at prospective men that way, and if one is a dom, he’ll tend to respond.

How had I missed the signals between Peter and myself? Maybe because when Jennifer had introduced us, all I’d heard was blah blah head of the anthropology department at blah blah specializing in blah and blah. Not that I don’t consider myself educated, but I’ve been to enough dull dinner parties to know that you don’t necessarily want to listen to lemur talk all night long.

To be fair, I had been pleased when he’d asked me about my occupation. At events like this, the conversations are often one-sided. But Peter had found out that I am a florist, and that I specialize in fair trade flowers.

As I spoke, Peter slowly tightened his grip on my wrists. I wondered if anyone would notice. I had finished eating, so my fork and knife were resting on the edge of my plate. But I was no longer gesturing in any way or even reaching for my wineglass for the occasional sip.

Peter leaned in to whisper in my ear, “Would you like more wine?”

I nodded, thinking for sure he would let my wrists go so I could lift my glass.

“What will you do for it?”

My cheeks went hot. My pussy had been wet from the moment his hand tightened on my slim wrists, but now we were approaching brand-new territory. I squirmed ever so slightly on my seat and looked at him. Nobody was paying us any attention. The expensive French wines had been flowing all evening, and now the director and one of Jennifer’s actress friends were chatting loudly, and the freelance editor was practically in the lap of the writer. It was a good group, with lots of noise. Nobody looked our way.

“What would you like me to do?” I responded softly. I could have said one of many things; I’ll suck your cock. I’ll give you my ass. But I wanted to hear his words.

“I want you to let me take you home and tie you down.”

So maybe this is all animalistic. Maybe those wired for BDSM have been gifted with signals. But Peter had caught me in his trap with an unexpected type of approach. I always thought I was well versed at topping from below. Once I found my prospective partner, I would then choreograph my way into all sorts of kinky situations. Peter was different. He set the snare and waited for me to fall in.

I wriggled my wrists in his hand, and he held me even tighter. My pussy responded instantaneously.

“Yes,” I said, “I will.”

“Good.” He released me, and a wave of utter sadness washed through my body. I didn’t want to be let go. I wanted to be his. I reached for the wineglass with a trembling hand, and before I realized what had happened, I tipped the glass. Peter had been watching carefully, and he caught the goblet before the glass hit the table, so that not a drop spilled. He smiled at me when I thanked him, and then looked at me expectantly. What did he want? As if he’d told me precisely what to do, words came into my head. I stood and went to Jennifer and made my excuses, thanking her for a lovely evening but claiming a wicked headache.

Peter was at my side when I reached the foyer, having made his own nimble excuses. “Come on,” he said.

I followed him, but instead of walking me to my car, he ushered me to the alley behind the house of our host. There was a garage back there, and Peter pushed me up against the cold cinderblock wall.

“So you like to be tied up?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I stared at him, unsure of what he was asking. “How what?”

“What manner?” he asked, pressing his body against mine, so I could feel his erection. “Cuffs? Ties? Leather straps?”

“Everything,” I said, speaking now in a rush. “I love being bound down so I can’t move. I like giving over the power to my partner.”

He took my wrists in his hands once more, and this time he held them over my head. “Show me,” he said. “Show me how good you can be. Stay exactly the way I tell you.”

I clasped my hands together and held still. Peter pushed my short dress to my waist and then slid my panties down my thighs. I would have stepped out of them, but he had not given the command. I waited, like a statue, for his instructions.

“Face the wall,” he said.

I spun around.

“Pretend your wrists are bound by cuffs,” he whispered to me, “and your ankles are captured with ties. You have no say in what’s going to happen to you.”

I stared in front of me. The moon was out, lighting our private world. We were all by ourselves back here, but anyone who wandered down the alley could find us. Maybe a neighbor walking a dog would stumble on our bondage games. But I didn’t care. I would be good. I’d show Peter what I was made of.

“Do you like being punished?” he asked. My pussy responded before I could. My nether lips were slick with my juices.

“Yes,” I managed to respond.

“How?”

So this was his game. I guessed that he would know how hard it was for me to tell him. These were serious confessions, and we’d only just met. But I would preen for him. I would fan my feathers, if that’s what he needed before he took me home.

“I like being spanked,” I said, “and whipped, and cropped. I like to feel the pain echoing through me. I like standing afterward and admiring the marks in front of a mirror, knowing I’ve earned the pleasure.”

He rutted against me once more, but this time he’d taken out his cock and I felt his naked skin against mine.

“I’m going to fuck you real good,” he said. “And then I’ll take you home, bind you down for real and give you the type of discipline you crave.”

He slid his cock inside me, and he brought one hand in front of my body to strum my clit. I was already on the verge, and I did my best not to come too soon. But I couldn’t help it. As he plucked and tweaked my clit, I came like a powerhouse, my cunt spasming around his cock over and over. I would have loved to dissolve right there, collapse onto the ground in a pool of pleasure. But he’d told me to stay still, to pretend I was bound in that position. So I came fiercely but without any large motion, stalwart in my decision to please him. Peter held my hips and pounded into me, and as he fucked me, he said, “I’m going to love spanking this gorgeous ass of yours. Think of all the ways we can play.”

He drove into me again and again, but he didn’t come. Instead, he pulled out and turned me around. Then he had me step out of my panties, and he slid them into his pocket. I was surprised, but I didn’t speak out. I didn’t even lower my hands until he gave me permission.

“You’ll follow me,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He walked me to my car, and I waited until he got into a nearby vehicle. I drove after him to a house close by—I’d known he was a neighbor of Jennifer’s, but had forgotten that he lived in the upper-class area favored by the educated elite, as well.

His house was charming, even in the dim moonlight, a shingled cottage on a manicured lot. If I hadn’t known he was kinky, I would have written him off as fussy. Everything was in its place. The garden was absolutely to my specifications, which made me happy. He was waiting for me at the porch, and he opened the door but blocked my way. “Safeword,” he said. This was a test. I knew. If I had hesitated and asked him what a safeword was, or pretended I was too cute to need one, he might have sent me on my way. Animals do have their ways to screen out poor partners.

“Rose,” I said. It’s been my word since before I owned the flower store. More sexy than simply saying, “Red,” I always thought.

“Perfect,” he said as he led me into his house. “I hope to color your skin the same velvety hue.”

My pussy clenched. I felt my knees shaking. Who would have thought when I agreed to attend Jen’s party that I would be on the verge of a bondage night within two hours?

Peter took my wrap and then waited. I looked at the floor, my nerves rising. What type of dom would he be? Would he strip me himself or command me to take off my clothes? Would he leave them on until the last possible moment or...?

“Undress,” he said, “and meet me in my bedroom. It’s the last door down the hall.”

“Yes,” I said, and waited.

“Sir,” he told me.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m true to my word,” he said. “I’m going to start you off with a spanking. You can think about that while you take off your dress.” Then he disappeared down the hall.

I took a breath to calm my nerves, and then I began to undress. I stepped out of my heels, pulled down my thigh-high stockings and removed my sheath. Only hours before, I’d paid painstaking attention to detail. I’d picked a pair of hose that matched a color of thread running through my strapless dress. I’d chosen a wrap that was a darker pink than the stockings. None of that mattered now. Sir—that’s how I thought of him as I took off my clothes in the foyer—wanted me nude. He was gone, off to prepare, I thought. Without his eyes on me, I moved the way I always do—quickly. Then I started down the hall.

As my bare feet padded on the hardwood floor, I wondered how he might spank me. Would he use his hand only? Did he prefer a paddle? These thoughts kept me well lubricated as I approached his bedroom door. I wasn’t prepared for what awaited me. The rest of the house was done in a refined, tasteful manner—mimicking the style I’d admired on the outside. But when I opened the door, I walked into what could only be described as a well-appointed dungeon. The walls were black. The bed in the center of the room was covered with a midnight bedspread. There were shackles attached to all four corners. Along one wall, displayed precisely, were his weapons of choice. Had I wondered whether he’d own a paddle? That query was answered by the multitude of colored paddles dangling from hooks above the bed. A row of crops, quirts and canes stood upright, fastened in place on a shelf.

The man was nothing if not organized.

He stood next to the bed, his suit jacket off. Why had I not noticed that he hadn’t been wearing a button-up shirt or a tie? He was now dressed only in black slacks and boots and a dark formfitting T-shirt that showed off his defined muscles. Yes, he was a scientist, but a sexy fucking scientist.

“Lie down on the bed,” he instructed, “on your stomach.”

I obeyed immediately, a bit weak at the sight of all the different materials. He immediately bound me in place with the confidence of an expert, my wrists over my head, my ankles to the bedposts. I wondered if he knew how wet I was. Could he tell? Could he smell my scent in the air? Peter ran his fingertips between my legs and felt the wetness himself. He gave a low, dark laugh that sent a shiver up my spine. “You’re dripping,” he said. “I don’t even know what we’d call this level of arousal.”

I sighed as his fingers probed me deeper. He plunged his pointer and middle finger inside my pussy, finger-fucking me for several seconds while I writhed in the little slack his bindings allowed me. Right when I was on the cusp of coming for the second time of the evening, he removed his hand.

I turned my head toward him, ready to beg, but the look on his face stopped me. He had that dead-serious dom look. I know what the expression means, and I decided I would not mess with him. Maybe in the future, we’d have the sort of push-me, pull-you relationship where I’d feel comfortable playing the brat to get what I wanted. But not yet. He reached for a paddle from a hook over the bed and let the cool surface of it press against my asscheeks. I sucked in my breath at the sensation. The glossy coating felt cold against my skin. How odd that in mere moments that same implement would be heating me up.

“How many do you think you can take?” he asked, surprising me. I’d assumed he would give me a number: “I’m going to give you ten,” or some such statement. Being asked was confounding. How could I know? He had never spanked me before. What if he were the type to go soft and easy? Or what if he were the type to land every stroke with blistering speed and force?

“I don’t know,” I stammered.

“Take a stab.” He sounded playful enough, but the look in his eyes was like ice. I wondered what the correct answer would be. Would he like it if I overstated my guess or played safe? I stared into his eyes and said, “Twelve.” That sounded reasonable enough to me. He smiled, as if he agreed, and then he stood back and started.

It’s always a thrill being punished by a new dom. I have never gotten over the rush of excitement, the building desires that work within me. I suppose for vanilla folks this is what a first kiss feels like. But for me, the very first spank is something to really relish. And I did.

He let that blow land—stinging on my right cheek—and I practically climaxed. I rubbed my pussy against the mattress, gaining as much contact as I could. Peter struck the second blow immediately, evening me out. He did not seem to mind the way my body was working—shifting and bucking on the mattress. I was glad that he didn’t tell me to stop, though I realized he was responding to my actions when he landed the next few blows to match the rhythm my writhing hips were beating out on the mattress.

I ground my hips forward. Peter responded with a resounding blow. I pushed down again. He spanked again. We continued all the way until he’d struck me eleven times. Then he said, “Stop moving like a cat in heat.”

I stopped.

“Think about how this one is going to feel. Really let yourself imagine the sensation of the paddle on your ass. Your bottom is already such a beautiful shade of red. This final spank has to surpass all of the previous blows.”

I closed my eyes tight and tried to do what he said. At first, I failed. All I could think of was what might happen next. Would he let me come? Would he fuck me? But he didn’t strike that final blow. He must have realized I wasn’t obeying. So then I did what he had instructed. I focused. I thought long and hard about what that paddle was going to feel like against my hot-as-hell asscheeks. And I started to whimper. Peter let loose number twelve and I cried out.

I had made no noise until then. That sound seemed to affect us both. Peter stripped and climbed onto the bed with me. He undid the straps at my ankles and then pushed me onto my hands and knees, with my wrists still cuffed. I felt his cock against my pussy, the head demanding entrance, and then he was in. He would find no resistance from me. I was as lubed as I could possibly have been.

Peter fucked me hard from the start, as he had out behind the garage. But this time, he talked to me. “I knew when Jennifer sat me next to you that you liked bondage.”

“How?” I panted.

“Sometimes you know,” he told me. He kept thrusting into me, driving his cock in to the hilt. I pulled on the handcuffs, rattling the chain as he fucked me. If my hands had been free, I’d have touched my clit. Peter took over for me, strumming me as he had outdoors.

“What had you thought?” I managed to ask. “What did you see when you met me?”

“A sub. A needy little sub.”

I was close again. So close.

“I wanted to spank you right there,” he said. “Put you over my lap at the table and lift your skirt. Punish that haughty ass of yours. It took everything in me to behave appropriately.”

“You seemed so cool,” I whispered.

“An act,” he said, and now, even as he pinched my clit with one hand, he landed a few smarting smacks with the other. I cried out at the confusing sensations coursing through me, and then I realized what was going to happen.

“I’m going to come,” I murmured. “Please, Sir. Peter. I’m going to come. May I come?” My words were jumbled, a rush. I prayed he’d say yes. It wouldn’t matter if he did or didn’t. The sensations were impossible to deny.

“Yes,” he said, and I sighed gratefully. “Come for me. Come, baby.”

I shivered all over as the second climax of the evening broke within me. And I felt Peter respond by powering through my orgasm to his own. He fucked me more fiercely than he had all night, and then collapsed against me as his own pleasure subsided.

Like a gentleman, he undid my wrists and rubbed the skin, then tucked me in with him under the satiny sheets. He held me in his arms as I allowed myself to take in the array of devices surrounding us. I realized that I wasn’t tired. In fact, I was ready for another round.

“Sir?” I asked, hesitantly.

“Yes, Simone.”

“You said that in the wild, animals have a way of finding each other. A type of understanding, right?” I stared into his eyes. I waited. He grinned and flipped me over, and I felt him leaning up in the bed to grab a fresh paddle.

I have to believe his hypothesis is correct—especially now that we’ve tested the theory again and again and again.