Tracy in Chains
Snow was drifting softly against the window outside Paul's Manhattan apartment. Thirty stories up, no one could see in to a sight that would surely have shocked them.
A naked young woman was bent over, straddling a sturdy wooden sawhorse. She was bound, at the wrists and ankles, with much used soft leather cuffs, clipped to stout eyehooks embedded in the wood. In her mouth was a bright red ball gag like one she had seen months ago, in her former life. It seemed like eons ago.
Her pussy, which rested bare against the smooth wood, was stuffed with a rather large flesh colored dildo that was operated by a remote controlled battery. In her ass there was a medium sized butt plug, significantly bigger than the one she had purchased for herself and timidly inserted on her own those many months ago.
This one had been inserted by her lover, as she bent over, her own hands holding open her butt cheeks while the color sprang up her neck and cheeks in a hot, rosy rush. Everything to do with her bottom seemed to embarrass Tracy unduly, but Paul worked with her to desensitize her and help her get over what he called her ridiculous shyness.
"There is no modesty, no hesitation, for a slave girl to her master. That is an essential lesson, darling. You refuse me nothing. The word 'no' is not in your vocabulary. I own you, plain and simple, and as such, I will do with you as I please. I also love you, however, and would never betray the total trust you must have in me."
How different from her relationship with Kyle, though on the surface there might seem to be similarities. Kyle had certainly been the 'dominant' one in their relationship – it was his opinions, his taste in art and music, his moods to go out or stay in – that dictated their lives together. Tracy had been complaisant in the arrangement, allowing, even encouraging his control, because of her misplaced admiration for him and her own secret sense of worthlessness.
She and Paul were truly friends, partners and lovers – consensual giving partners who both relished their respective roles as sub and Dom and cherished each other. Kyle had been an extension of her parents – withholding, aloof, supremely confident of his abilities, and always questioning, or being indifferent to hers.
Tracy learned to fade into the background. It was safer, especially when her stepfather was drunk and looking for someone to bully. There were many nights, when he came home drunk and flipped on Tracy's bedroom light, jerking her from sleep, to rage at her for failing, yet again, to clean something to his specifications.
If the dishes hadn't been loaded into the dishwasher, she would be forced to get up and do them at once. If they were neatly loaded and the floor carefully swept, then the cabinets needed washing down, or the trash had been placed too close to the house. Tracy had learned never to look to her mother for support during these episodes. Her mother would vanish, leaving Tracy to bear the brunt of her husband's insanity.
Perhaps that was why she kept her own home obsessively clean – some subconscious fear that her stepfather would appear and wrench her from her bed, holding her arm so tightly it left bruises the next day.
That was precisely why Paul didn't allow Tracy to do a thing in his apartment. He knew her history, though he rarely referred to it. In his home, for once in her life, Paul was determined she should be treated like a princess.
It had made her very uncomfortable at first, as she was so used to being sole caretaker of the home and had actually come to believe it was 'women's work.' Paul continued to refuse her, gently removing a dish towel from her hand if she tried to wipe down the counter, whisking the dishes from her hand if she went to clear them.
He did allow her to cook; Tracy was a wonderful cook and Paul had a hearty and appreciative appetite. She loved to make him fancy full course meals while he was at work, complete with appetizer and dessert. It was such fun to go shopping in the little markets near his apartment, getting fruits and vegetables in one stall, breads and baking needs in a tiny little bakery nearby. She was becoming friendly with the old butcher on the corner who saved her select cuts of meat.
She realized with a little shock that she had never been unemployed since she was 16. She had some savings from Kyle's 'buyout', but still she was concerned about finances. Having quit her job, she had no stream of money coming in and no particular prospects.
Paul had convinced her to take just one month. "Please," he had entreated her, "Just spend one month with me here in my apartment. Don't do anything. No housework, no job hunting, no obsessing about the past or the future. Justbe with me.
"Be my total sex slave slut girl. Exist just for us, for you and me. Let's take this unique and amazing opportunity and justbe together." Of course, she'd allowed herself to be persuaded, and found herself filled with a tremendous energy and deep sense of wellbeing. It wasn't just being in love, and it wasn't being in lust. It wasn't only the fact that she was finally with the man she had dreamed about for so long, the reality of whom was better than the fantasy! It was all these things, but more importantly, she was finally at peace with herself. She was happy to be Tracy, and didn't secretly yearn to be someone more glamorous, or smarter, or more self-assured.
When she tried to tell Paul this, and tried to give him the credit, he would stop her cold. "Wrong, Tracy. Nothing to do with me. It all was you. Any changes you've made, any changes you feel, they all came from within you. You're pretty terrific, you know."
She grinned, and almost believed him. Maybe in time, she would fully believe him. At the moment she wasn't thinking about any of that, as she was bent and naked, tied to this wooden beam. She was thinking about how he had ratcheted it up so she was just high enough not to be able to quite balance, which forced her to put her weight on her poor pussy, splayed open against the wood and stuffed with the vibrator he had her pick out.
They were in the Village, and he took her into one of those basement sex boutiques. What a different experience from the dingy little place she'd found in Houston. This one was brightly lit and covered from floor to ceiling with S amp;M paraphernalia. There were whips of all sizes and colors, riding crops, collars, ball gags, full leather face masks, cock and ball cages, violet wands and any number of other items, some of which even Paul didn't know what they were for.
It was late, as they had come after dinner and an off Broadway play, and the place was alive with the 'leather crowd', many in full costume. A gay submissive man was being led around on a leash by his lover, who invited a blushing Tracy to feel his slave boy's stomach. "Feel those abs. Abs of steel. I make him work out every day. Isn't he justgorgeous!"
Instead of a few old wooden planks serving as shelves, all the smaller items were encased in glass, so a person had to ask to see them. Tracy was mortified when Paul instructed her to ask to see the vibrators and the nipple clamps.
Putting his arm protectively around her, Paul whispered in her ear, "Remember who you belong to. Go on, I'm right here." She found the courage to ask, and was presented with a velvet board covered with all sorts of clamps, many of which she had no idea even existed. Not only nipple clamps, but nipple clips, nipple jewelry, pussy clamps and cock clamps.
Paul finally chose for her, a simple three-piece set of clamps, one for each nipple and a single chain that hung down between them. "What's that one for?" she'd asked, realizing as she spoke, what it was for. Her pussy! No way could she endure the bite of that tightly sprung little clamp on her tender sex!
Paul had laughed at her, his eyes twinkling as he reminded her that she could 'endure' exactly what he decided she could endure. His tone was light, but she knew he meant it. He took her into the shop bathroom, made her unbutton her blouse and remove her bra.
"Get your nipples hard for me, slut," he commanded, his voice low. Feeling jittery with nerves, terrified it was going to hurt too much to bear, Tracy obediently did as she was told, feeling that wonderful combination of fear and pleasure surge through her as she watched him adjust and open one of the little alligator clips.
It closed down upon her nipple and stung like a bee. She cried out, but just as suddenly the pain was tolerable, and she stilled, waiting for him to attach the other one. She breathed in deeply through her nose, but didn't cry out. Paul had been impressed with her bravery and composure.
"Very good, angel. Very, very good. Let's just leave those on. Close your blouse. Put your bra in your purse and you can close your coat.
"Leave them on?" she had asked tremulously. Her feelings were mixed, as was so often the case when pain and pleasure combined inside her, creating a much heightened sensation that superceded either. Her pussy felt swollen and needy between her legs.
"Don't worry. They don't do any damage. Nothing permanent anyway."
She became very familiar with those clamps, and learned to tolerate them with barely a sigh – until he took them off, and the blood went rushing and tingling back into her sensitized nipples. It always made her yelp.
Back into the showroom, Tracy was forced to select several vibrators and dildos, with Paul's encouragement and suggestion. She, of course, went straight to the smallest butt plug, but he added two more graduated sizes, playfully squeezing her ass as he did so.
The medium one was now deep in her ass. She could feel it against the dildo shoved up her cunt. The sound of a door opening, then a click and a whir – Paul had turned on the pussy vibrator and, with the direct contact of the wood against her cunt, Tracy began to shudder involuntarily from the vibration.
Paul, dressed in a simple cashmere sweater and his ancient jeans, his feet bare, came around to his captive slave girl. "You look so incredibly hot, Tracy. Can you feel it? Can you feel that rubber cock fucking your cunt right now?"
Tracy tried to move her head; to nod. With the large red ball pressing her tongue back toward her throat she could only gurgle her response. Paul observed her body, watching the tremors the vibrator was creating inside her, as her clit throbbed against the polished wood.
Kneeling in front of her, Paul carefully attached the nipple clamps to each distended tip of her breasts, which were hanging freely over each side of the narrow wooden beam she was draped over. The permanent chain around her neck glinted in the soft overhead light.
He saw her eyes widen; the only reaction she could make, bound and gagged as she was. "Are you comfortable, darling? As comfortable as can be, I mean, given your situation." Paul grinned, running his hand lightly over her smooth back and ass, and then checking her arms and legs for circulation and comfort.
Tracy nodded. Paul was very good about positioning her so that nothing fell asleep or cramped. If they were engaged in extended bondage play, as they were this snowy winter evening, he would check her periodically, to make sure she was comfortable and safe.
"I'll let you down soon, slave. Because I want to fuck that gorgeous ass of yours. But not yet, not yet. I'm gonna whip you first, while that cock's turned on in your cunt, and that plug is shoved up your asshole. And guess what, today's the day you get to get a taste of the cane."
Tracy jerked, trying to lift her head, struggling briefly, uselessly, against her bonds. The cane. Paul had showed her the set of canes he kept in a little umbrella stand in the corner of the den, which he had converted into their 'playroom'.
Long supple rods of bamboo; some covered in colored leathers, some just varnished and smoothed to a biting luster. All of them were guaranteed to cut the flesh if used improperly, and raise lovely welts if wielded by a master, as Paul certainly was.
Tracy could take a fair amount of pain, Paul had discovered. Not only could she take it; but she was something of a pain slut, he would tease her. She could practically orgasm just from a nice whipping with a heavy flogger. He would whip her until she dropped, or his arm was tired, and then fuck her, wherever they happened to be. A few thrusts and Tracy was coming, screaming her pleasure as she bucked and arched against him, pulling him into her with her hips, her hands, her whole self.
But she was afraid of the cane, of the slicing sound as it cut through the air, of what it must do to flesh. She'd seen pictures on the net of women ravaged by the cane, their backs and buttocks covered in dark purple welts and bruises, and it frightened her.
"That's not what we're about, sweetheart," Paul had assured her. "That's brutality. It really has nothing to do with what you and I have. Our mutual pleasure in the giving and receiving of erotic pain. I would never cut your flesh. I could never harm my most valued possession. You have to know that, don't you?"
She nodded; she did know that, but she also knew she was still afraid of those canes, and, so far, he hadn't used one on her. Now, bound and gagged, she had nothing to say in the matter. She couldn't protest, or try to edge away, or distract him from his purpose.
On some level, that freed her to relax. She couldn't get away; couldn't resist, so why bother? Already deeply aroused from this bondage, and from being spread and stuffed with dildos, on display for her lover as he watched her edge toward battery-driven orgasm, she was open to whatever came next.
What choice did she have? Reading her mind, as he so often did, Paul remarked, "You really have no choice. I've decided you're ready for your first caning. You've earned it, if you will. You deserve it. You deserve to feel the bite of the rod against taut flesh. You want to suffer for me; you say it often enough. Well now's your chance."
His hands were on her ass, smoothing, preparing the flesh. He could feel the dildo, still buried in her pussy, emanating its vibrations from deep inside her. He could see from her flushed skin and the way she was moving that Tracy was near orgasm.
Deliberately, he flicked the switch, turning off the vibrator. Much better to have her right on the edge of release, her sensations heightened, so she could fully appreciate the cutting kiss of the cane.
"I'm going to mark you tonight, my love. Nothing permanent, but it should last a few days. Ready?" Not expecting a response from his gagged slave, Paul brought the cane down on Tracy's right butt cheek, hitting the fleshy mark right across the center.
Tracy gurgled and screamed behind the gag, but very little sound escaped. Paul hit the other cheek, watching in satisfaction as the long thin lines left by each strike were rapidly turning to a dark pink, the skin rising as blood rushed to the injured spot.
He knew just how hard to hit. It hurt, there was no mistake about it, but he wouldn't cut the skin, or create any permanent marks. Tracy lay still, and he walked around to the front of her to better gauge her response.
"You ok, baby? You just got your first caning. Can you take it?"
Tracy nodded, though her eyes were bright with tears.
"Shall I take out the gag?" Tracy nodded. Her jaw was aching from being forced open for so long. Paul obligingly unbuckled the gag and let it fall to the floor. Kneeling in front of her, he smoothed her hair from her face, licking her dry lips, gently biting and kissing her mouth.
His cock was straining painfully in his pants, but he would deny himself a while longer. Tracy looked impossibly sexy and he knew he wouldn't last much longer before he'd have to let her down and fuck her. A few more licks of the cane and he'd move her to the futon, already made and waiting in a corner to receive the lovers.
Moving back around his girl, Paul whipped her with the cane, landing well aimed blows across her bottom and thighs, leaving her flesh marked with fiery lines. Tracy screamed with each strike, and was on the edge of begging him to stop, when Paul could contain himself no longer.
"I have to fuck you!" he cried, unclipping her wrists and ankles from their wooden pillory. Quickly and efficiently he removed the vibrator and butt plug from Tracy's pussy and ass, dropping them in the bowl of soapy water he had prepared earlier.
Gently he helped her from her perch, to her feet. He led her to the soft downy quilts piled on the futon and pressed her down toward it, on her belly. Tracy was breathing deeply, moving slowly, as if in a trance. It was what some called 'submissive head space,' and others called flying. It was that delicious and elusive state that a skilled Dom could bring a sub to, where they no longer experienced pain as pain precisely, but as a perfect extension of pleasure. The two became indistinguishable and equally desirable, both immeasurably heightened.
It had the potential to be dangerous, because at that point the submissive no longer had a clear sense of what was safe; what was appropriate. Paul recalled the scene party he had taken Tracy to, where a woman was bound to a large wooden cross and whipped until she slumped, seemingly unconscious, in her rough rope bonds.
Tracy had watched, fascination and horror doing battle on her face, as the woman was savagely beaten by her husband/Master. "Oh, Paul," she had whispered, "Isn't he going too far? Isn't someone going to stop him?"
"Don't worry, he knows what he's doing. They've been together for years. She needs that kind of whipping, and in a public place, to really get off. Look at her. Look at all those pale and darker lines covering her entire back, ass and thighs. She's beaten like this regularly, and always kept freshly marked. She loves it; she lives for it. It makes her fly."
"Fly?" Tracy was looking more closely now, seeing the roughened skin and the clear evidence of constant whippings. She found that her mouth was dry and her reaction confused, at once put off, and deeply aroused by what she was watching.
Paul explained in words, what Tracy was now experiencing in fact, for the first time herself. She wasn't in a trance exactly; she was perfectly lucid and aware of her surroundings. She was in something of an altered state – at once deeply at peace and fiercely aroused, ready to do anything, absolutely anything, her master should require of her.
A dominant friend of Paul's once explained, "When my girl gets like that, you could say, 'I'm going to cut off your arm now, darling,' and she would smile dreamily and say, 'Yes, Master." The point being that the Dom had the responsibility for both of them, to lead her as far into that little piece of heaven as she could go without endangering her physical safety.
Paul admired Tracy for a moment, her loose easy way of moving, her head back slightly, lips parted, eyes glistening with a soft love directed solely at him. He remembered that scene party, and how Tracy had surprised herself in discovering she was something of an exhibitionist!
Tracy's blouse that evening was a sheer pale pink, and he hadn't permitted her to wear a bra. The blouse was tucked into a very tight and short black leather skirt that revealed the bottoms of her garters and the tops of her silky black stockings. Her nipples had been poking alluringly against the fabric of her blouse all evening.
Paul had ordered her to open her blouse so he could attach her nipple clamps, but that night they weren't hidden in a bathroom; they were right out in the open in the rented ballroom of a hotel, surrounded by people in various states of dress and undress. There were other people there already flashing breasts and asses and even cocks, bound in leather or metal, or just exposed for the slave's humiliation and the master's pleasure.
Testing Tracy's self-proclaimed desire to submit to him, to obey him at this party and do exactly what he told her, Paul gave her this order and waited to see what she would do. He watched her as she bit her lip, resisting her first impulse to refuse, to protest, to keep her modesty.
She looked into his eyes, and, a determined expression on her face, she slowly unbuttoned the blouse, revealing her luscious round breasts with their dark pink tips, all ready to feel the bite of his clamps.
Paul was very pleased with her obedience. He clipped first one and then the other little torture device to her sensitive nipples, as she hissed her acknowledgement of the bite. "Now go get us some coffee," he said, sitting back to watch the action.
Tracy did as he said, her face burning, but utterly determined to obey. She slid gracefully from him on her high heels, no longer wobbling as she had done so long ago in that horrible motel room where Guy had had her wear imitation ill-fitting patent leather stilettos. These shoes tonight were of the softest leather and fit her feet perfectly. She and Paul had shopped for quite a while to find just the right shoes.
Her long lean legs looked even longer in those 5" heels, and many pairs of eyes followed her appreciatively, as she made her way to the coffee bar. Leaning forward a little to add the cream, Tracy suddenly found herself in front of a short young man whose eyes were exactly level to her bare and chained breasts.
He seemed unsteady on his feet for a moment, as if he were actually going to fall against her, his head landing between her breasts. Stammering something to her, he blushed crimson and sputtered to a stop. She literally didn't understand a word he said, hearing only, "hummina, hummina, hummina," like some modern day Ralph Cramden, at a total loss for words.
The experience amused her, and made her relax more. When she'd first entered the party, it had seemed like a gathering of the 'beautiful people' from some dark Gothic S amp;M dream – all long limbs and leather and chains. Here was just a regular Joe, as nervous as she was, and as unhinged by the nudity and chains as she would have been without Paul at her side.
She realized she liked being exposed! She felt proud of her body for the first time, and actually stuck out her chest a little as she wended her way back to Paul, coffee cups carefully balanced in each hand.
Paul had observed the whole thing, smiling widely as she returned. He teased her, "What a slut! Sticking your tits in that poor bastard's face! I should give you to him for the night, for leading him on like that!"
Tracy felt her own cheeks turn rosy from his teasing, but she wasn't displeased. She became serious and asked, "You would actually give me to someone? Like Emmanuel?" (They'd rented the movies.)
"Of course I would, Tracy. If that's what I wanted to do. Do you have a problem with that?"
"I – I don't know, Paul. I mean, without you…" Tracy trailed off, confused. She had promised in theory to do whatever Paul commanded of her, sexually, and that included giving her body to whomever he chose. Somehow, in her mind's eye, Paul would always be there with her.
"I don't, though," he added, smiling. "Right now, I can't envision giving you to someone else without me being there. We will probably play with others, Tracy, when we feel ready, but right now I can't imagine wanting you to be somewhere I'm not, especially not in the arms of another man!"
Here in his apartment, he watched his lover swaying gracefully, her eyes shining. He wanted her so badly he couldn't wait another second. "Get on your hands and knees; I want your ass," he ordered, his voice hoarse with pent up need.
Tracy crouched as ordered, suppressing a little sigh. She desperately wanted to feel his gorgeous, hard cock thrusting into her pussy. She longed to buck and wriggle against it, to feel her own rising orgasm as he held her hips and used her body.
She didn't ask. These weeks had taught her that much at least. She didn't ask for her own needs to be met, or what she perceived to be her needs. Paul determined what her needs were, sexually speaking, and Paul decided if she was going to come, when and how, and even with whom, though so far it had only been with him.
"It isn't about you," he would say to her, as he did what he pleased. On one level she understood what he meant. As the submissive, the 'bottom', she theoretically existed solely for his, the Dom's, pleasure. Her orgasms were incidental, or if not incidental, entirely at his whim.
On another level she knew what he said wasn't entirely true. They didn't share the black and white world of Dom and sub, Master and slave, that was outlined so carefully in the many articles she had read on the subject, and were debated endlessly in the chat rooms by supposed authorities.
Into that heady mix of sadistic sexual torture and submissive yielding, was thrown in the most important piece of the equation. The piece that was missing from so many of the articles and explanations she had garnered in her limited surfing – love.
Paul was so obviously and so hopelessly in love with her that, of course, her pleasure was paramount to him. He understood that her pleasure transcended mere self-indulgent physical satisfaction. Her pleasure truly did derive in part from serving him, from suffering for him, from denying herself for him, from pleasing him.
It was as if they were two parts of a puzzle that had been made and then broken apart long ago, and now they were together, the various jagged and sometimes broken parts of them fitting together in a perfect, smooth whole.
It didn't imply that 'one completed the other' or that they couldn't have done just fine without each other. As Paul was fond of saying, "We don't need each other. We don'tneed anyone, really. No adult does, but isn't it wonderful how much we want each other?"
It still surprised her that he didn't want to alter her. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in her. In fact, nobody in her life had been so supremely interested in her just as she was, but Paul's interest didn't seem to lead on to a desire to mold and modify.
Paul expected people would respect his space, his boundaries, and was prepared to grant the same to other people. He allowed them to come to their own conclusions, by their own routes, down their own pathways. It frightened Tracy at first; this having to think for herself, but in the end, it freed her, giving her the courage to explore her own feelings with more honesty than before. It allowed her, as trite as it sounded, to grow up.
Now she knelt on hands and knees, sinking into the soft down, her ass and thighs a crisscross of fire, her pussy soaked and twitching, her little nether opening being smeared with lubricant by her lover, who would, in a moment, order her to spread her cheeks for him.
The first time he had told her to do that, Tracy had resisted. When she finally obeyed, her face was the color of beets as she imagined him critically examining her puckered little asshole.
In fact, the physical act of holding her cheeks apart didn't allow her to tense her anal muscles nearly as much, and entry was markedly less painful than it might have been. Now she was waiting for his command to grab her ass, as she felt his warm strong body crouching behind her.
A moan of feral pleasure was wrenched from Tracy when Paul surprised her by entering her pussy, lifting her slightly at her hips to give himself better access. The unexpected but delicious invasion unhinged Tracy, who was already emotionally and physically extended from the lengthy and difficult bondage, and the virgin caning.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she gushed, the words a constant litany as she arched in feline pleasure against his body.
"Shh, stop that. Don't thank me, silly. Hush. I'm doing what I want. You know that. I only do what I want." Tracy ignored him, bucking and pushing, seizing the moment before he withdrew, to steal her own desperately needed release.
"Can I?" she whispered, almost choking on the words as he savagely thrust into her.
"Yes, yes. Come for me, Tracy. Now." And she did, blindly, the world exploding. Heart pounding, ass still on fire, she tried to sink into the soft quilts.
"Oh no you don't," Paul said, his hard cock still inside her. "I'm not done with you. Spread your little ass, slut girl. You're not done till I am, as you well know." Tracy forced herself back to her hands and knees, reaching back to spread her welted cheeks for her master.
She was still stretched from the butt plug and his cock slid easily into her nether opening, with only the slightest pain.
Paul moaned his very evident satisfaction as her tight ass squeezed his cock until he exploded with pleasure, all the delicious longing of the last hours honed down into this final perfect experience. He came hard inside her, then fell heavily against her.
She was permitted, at last, to fall to the soft bed and lay still, his heart dancing against her back, his face next to hers, his voice whispering softly how he loved her. Was this the happily ever after ending? Oh no, it was only the beginning.