A warning – this story contains non-consensual sex, something I am in no way advocating. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to write about it but the story seemed to go this way and I went along with it. And while I hope this doesn’t really need to be said, I will say it anyway, sex should always be between consenting adults . This is a fantasy. Carry on.
I found that I had underestimated how long I could keep the beast caged. In my mind I see my beast like a demonic panther, a jungle cat juiced on steroids and crack. It pants as it paces, I see fangs dripping with saliva and black eyes glowing as blood-red as the core of burning coals, muscles rippling as it strides until finally it sits utterly motionless, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
When Isabella agreed to come home with me for a final drink and an espresso, I quickly paid the bill. Though I doubted she would, I didn’t want her changing her mind. My car was parked just a few doors down from the bar. My friends tell me I’m crazy and I should just cab around Manhattan but I drive everywhere; I’m sure it’s just another manifestation of my need to control everything. To imagine myself at the mercy of some non-English speaking suicide commando of a taxi driver is anathema to me.
I now, after years of living in an overpriced, cramped Upper West Side apartment, live in Williamsburg. I got in at a good time, just before it turned trendy, when artists could actually afford lofts here. My home has three floors, a garage and a cellar. When I found it, it had been uninhabited for years, an abandoned guitar factory. I knew it was perfect, though at the time I didn’t have abduction and torture in mind. That’s a lie; actually I always have torture somewhere in the recesses of my mind. The cellar gave me the ability to transform my thoughts into reality.
Do you know how easy it is to make yourself a fully equipped dungeon? Between Home Depot and a few trips to a shop on Christopher Street that sells leather restraints which rival the best of British workmanship, the cellar now serves that purpose. If you look closely you can find evidence of my love of BDSM in all rooms of my house, but they tend to be veiled, like the wrought iron chandelier in my bedroom that can either be lit with candles or is anchored in solidly enough for me to restrain you. In the basement there is no such pretext. God, thinking about getting Isabella down there, her clothes tattered and torn, tears streaking her cheeks that still bear my crimson hand print, makes it uncomfortable sitting here next to her. I feel the rumble of the beast as its growl reverberates through my throat.
But I behave. I sit Isabella on my sofa, pour her a glass of Chardonnay and converse with her. I want to know all about her before I strike. My patience serves a purpose. I want to learn her strengths and her weaknesses to better manipulate her later. She tells me of her parents, both born of wealth and powerful in the corporate world, and her eyes fill with sadness. She was constantly attended by a string of nannies and then left to her own devices by the age of fifteen. Given everything that money could buy to placate their guilt at having a child after it became quite clear neither of them had the temperament or time to raise her. A childhood of disappointment is reflected in her eyes. I laugh to myself; she couldn’t make it easier for me to manipulate her. Of course, I don’t have to. I could and will simply overpower her, but brute force bores me after a while, to possess her body and her mind, now that, that is appealing.
I pour us another glass of wine, one that she will never get to finish and I excuse myself for a moment. She smiles up at me and I reflect that this is the last smile I’ll see from her for a long while. Going to my bedroom, I close the door behind me and take a moment before collecting the gear I want and laying it out on the bed: leather wrist and ankles restraints, thick and padded on the inside, studded with heavy steel rings, a collar, a crop, a few canes, clover clamps and a pair of floggers. I leave the knife in my bedside drawer, knowing it will be there when I need it. My erection throbs as I take a final glance at the tools of my depravity. As an after thought, I take a half empty roll of duct tape from my drawer and shove it into the back of my trousers. I smile to myself and close the door behind me, thinking about how she deserves this, how she asked for it with those fucking eyes of hers. I get even harder thinking about how beautiful she’ll look when those eyes reflect terror.
I walk over and stand directly in front of her, keeping my voice calm and level, I know my face betrays no emotion, and I like it that way.
“Stand the fuck up, bitch,” I say staring into her brown eyes and absorbing the look of shock that comes over her face.
“What did you say,” she stammers.
I reach over, grab her hair at the base of her scalp and pull her to her feet. I hold her there for a moment as she struggles, twisting, trying to escape. My grip is so tight she can barely move her head. I look into those brown orbs for a moment, relishing the pain and confusion, before my left hand arcs back and I swing even harder then I expected, my open palm connecting with her cheek and knocking her so off balance that she staggers back and falls onto the sofa and with me on top of her.
Tears form in heavy droplets at the corner of her eyes, as my hold on her hair tightens and I move my left hand to gently cup her throat. I watch her mouth move, but no words escape. Shock has stolen her voice temporarily and I release her hair, reach behind my back and retrieve the roll of tape, tearing off a length that will cover her soft lips and make even her words dependent on my discretion and kindness.
She attempts to push me away; small delicate hands push at my chest ineffectually until I tire of her pathetic efforts and slap her face again.
“Stop struggling, Isabella. From this moment on you will do precisely what I tell you, no matter how hard it may be. Disobedience will be met with punishment. I am fair, Isabella, but I am harsh. I advise you not to push me. Nod if you understand.”
I watch as she shakes her head vigorously up and down, nodding her comprehension. I lean over and kiss the top of her head before rising up and standing in front of her. I have excellent posture; it makes me seem even taller than I am. One particular woman told me that when I stood over her as she was sprawled out on the floor of my cellar, she could think of no other word than looming.
“Good, now stand the fuck up.”
This time, she complies. Standing in front of me, looking down at her feet, she’s afraid to meet my eyes. I reach over and delicately lift her chin, “Look at me unless I tell you not to.” Those damn eyes of her. I want to see everything she feels through them: shame, fear, lust, pain, disappointment, anger, acceptance.
I tell her to stay put, turn my back on her and walk to a chair across the room. I sit and drink her in as she shivers in spite of the heat.
“Remove your dress, lift it over your head and place it on the coffee table.”
She hesitates for a moment, I expected nothing less and I say nothing. It’s too soon to annihilate her though that panther in my soul will not be still until his bloodlust is sated. I control him as well; I want to enjoy her increments. And thanks to my fucking supervisor, I have three weeks before I even have to contemplate leaving her. Three weeks to own and possess her. I am rock hard at the thought and the sight of her, arms raised over her head as she shimmies out of her dress making me picture how she’ll look, arms tied above her head to the whipping post in the cellar, is enough to make me want to explode. I can see my hot come, pearly white against pale skin, covering her beautiful face.
She turns and puts her dress on the table and returns her glance to me.
“Good, Isabella. You’ve earned a reward. Would you like the tape off your mouth?”
It is not evidence of my kindness or generosity, though I want her to think it is, I want to hear her breathing, her sighs, her groans and her screams. I want her to repeat the vilest words. But if the silly bitch thinks it’s a reward, well, so be it.
“Walk over to me,” I say.
She does.
“Kneel between my thighs.”
She does, but her eyes are downcast again. The warmth of her cheek against my leg causes my cock to surge again.
“Look up at me, cunt,” I growl.
She does and her eyes register confusion at my change in tone. She doesn’t know what to expect and she shouldn’t. I want her like this, completely off balance. And this time, it’s all about what I want. In the past, the needs of the women I dated always came first, I have always been a strict and severe man (I hate to use the word dom, I hate buttonholing myself like that) but my focus had been on giving the woman what she needed while taking what I need. It was always about balance. Here, now, Isabella’s needs mean nothing to me. She exists to please me. And that thought makes me feel lighter, like I can almost float.
I ground myself by reaching for an edge of the tape and pulling it off her mouth in one swift tear. She gasps and I see she has cut her lip on her teeth when I slapped her. The tape leaves a livid red rash around her mouth.
“If you want the tape to stay off, Isabella, you will do exactly as I say, when I say it. Your comfort doesn’t matter to me. Not in the least. If it matters to you, well, I have told you what you need to do.”
“Please,” she starts to say and I press a finger to her lips shushing her.
“First rule, cunt, you do not speak unless directed to do so. Whimper, scream, moan all you like, but no talking. Do you understand?”
A whisper – “Yes.”
And so here she is, in one of the many positions I had imagined her. Kneeling at my feet, dressed only in a black bra and black lace panties, my thighs pressed against her upper arms. I slide forward so that I am at the very edge of the chair and push her face against my erection.
“Feel that. That will soon be in every orifice of your body. My cock will penetrate your pretty mouth, your slick cunt, your ass. Think about it, Isabella, the head of my cock pushing into that tight little ass of yours.”
I am rewarded by her muffled whimpering as she tries to shake her head no.
“Open your mouth. Swallow my cock through my trousers. Do a good job, bitch,” I say as I recline back a bit to enjoy her mouth. Her breath and saliva soak through my pants as she attempts to please me.
I abruptly stand, knocking her backwards onto her ass. I loom over her and a look of apprehension fills her eyes as I extend my hand down and help pull her to her feet. I place one hand on her throat, watching those brown eyes widen as I squeeze just a bit, and the other hand reaches insider her bra. My fingers assault her nipple, pulling and twisting it so hard that I won’t be surprised if it bruises. She gasps and I hush her, my eyes never leaving hers, enjoying, fuck relishing the pain I see there.
My best laid plans change right there and then. Those eyes, fuck the bedroom, I want her in my dungeon. I want her cuffed to my handmade St. Andrews Cross, naked and shivering in the perpetual damp. I release her, tell her to turn around and place her hands behind her back. She obeys beautifully. I grip her wrists in one hand and push her to the cellar door.
Of course there are lights but I leave them off. I know my way and having her stumble, I won’t let her fall, reinforces her dependence on me. And it makes me so fucking hard. A win-win situation. At the bottom of the stairs, I release her for a moment and unlock the door to the dungeon, turn on the light and stand back allowing her to enter before closing door again. Her eyes fill with tears as she takes it all in; the cross, the whipping post, the high back wood chair with heavy iron rings attached to the arms and legs, the spanking bench, the rings embedded in the floor and walls, and the array of whips and canes displayed on the wall.
“Oh god,” she cries, “please, please just…..”
I can’t help but smirk as I cut her off, “Just what, bitch? Let you go? Do you really believe that’s an option?”
The beast is hungry, so damn ravenous, he needs to be sated or at least have a snack to tide him over. The taste of blood, sharp and metallic, will suffice to quench his thirst; but just a taste. I know I’ll have to hold myself back but I need to have a little, I deserve it for my patience.
I push her over to the cross I constructed, a simple X design, bolted together in the center. I like the look of ancient things, all the hardware is old, no stainless steel for me but iron rings that I scoured flea markets, salvage and junk yards to find. The only steel is on the leather restraints that are fastened to the cross. I gently remove her platinum watch and place it safely out of the way on the long wooden trestle table I found at a barn sale upstate. Next, I wrap the thick leather snugly around her delicate wrists and test to make sure they’re secure.
Her legs are trembling so beautifully by the time I bend to attach her ankles in similar fashion. When she is secure I step back to admire her; long ebony hair flows over one side of her face like when I first saw her, but her hands are unavailable to brush the liquid strands back. Her skin is so beautifully pale against her black lingerie. I shut my eyes for a moment and contemplate that pristine skin laced with red slash marks from my newest cane. I take a deep centering breath, remind myself to enjoy her in increments and open my eyes.
“You look stunning, Isabella. Being so helpless and afraid makes you look even lovelier.”
She merely sobs in response making my erection twitch.
I walk over to a large chest, open the lid and am treated to my collection of knives. I chose one with a long steel shaft that is perfectly weighted in my hand. It catches the light and Isabella’s attention.
As I get closer to her, she struggles against her bonds fiercely. I am glad to see she has some fight in her, so far she has been a lamb; she no doubt believed her compliance would spare her, but presented with the evidence that this isn’t the case, she fights.
And while I am glad to see she has it in her, I want it quashed at the moment. I slide the knife under one strap of her bra and then the other, a mere flick of my wrist cuts through them. I do the same to the sides of her panties, tugging the lacey fabric along her slit, enjoying how she squirms as I let it massage her clit by sliding the scrap of her panties back and forth before pulling them free and exposing her shaved pussy. Her aroma fills my nostrils and it takes all my strength not let myself dip my tongue into her sweetness. Increments, I remind myself.
Then I return to her bra. I slide the knife under the center, between her breasts and when I cut through the fabric there, I let the blade nick her skin, a shallow enough cut, but deep enough to weep a thin line of blood, and am treated to a rapid intake of breath followed by tears that now flow silvery down her cheeks. I look up at her eyes, wide and terrified, and lick the tears from her cheeks. My lips find her mouth but she turns her head away and surprises me with a loud shout, “No.”
I hold the blade to her throat and softly ask her if she thinks that a wise decision.
“Fuck you,” she spits at me.
I have to say I am impressed with her spirit, still I can’t have this. I place the tip of the knife at her nipple.
“Your choice,” I whisper, “your choice. Your lips or your nipple. I want your decision now.”
The air barely stirs as the words escape her mouth.
“Louder. Loud enough so that I can hear you.”
“My lips.”
“Be polite, Isabella, It’s in your interest to be polite. Now say it again.
I know I’ve got her now; I see hate and fear both clearly written on her face and in her angry eyes but her fear wins. Her instinct for self preservation wins.
A whisper again – “My lips…..please.”
I kiss her, despite the fact that I’d like it louder, I only have so much patience and I want to taste her. Her lips are dry but they yield to mine, becoming softer as my tongue invades her mouth and wraps around hers. I take a step back and look at my conquest displayed so lewdly; her bottom half bare, her bra falling away from her heavy tear drop shaped breasts, aureoles a soft cotton candy pink, nipples erect from the chill and fear, and the blood that flows from the cut between them slowly crawling down her taut belly.
The blood calls to the animal inside of me and I press my lips to her wound and let the tip of my tongue trace the line all the down to her belly.
“Look at me, Isabella. Look into my eyes,” I say as I kiss her, never letting my eyes leave hers, letting her taste the blood that stains my lips.
“We have just begun,” I say as I make my way to the table and light the stub of a candle that remains in the candlestick.
I head to the door and shut the lights.
“Where are you going,” she asks in a voice betraying panic. I know she has seen how low the candle is and is trying to determine how much time she has before the cellar goes dark. Yes, I am that cruel, though I would never have cut off her nipple. It’s all about playing the odds, and I am excellent at calculating such things. I knew she’d never choose such mutilation over a kiss.
I take a final look at her, falling under the spell of those eyes that reflect the golden radiance of the candle, and then I close the door behind me, only lingering long enough to hear her sweet voice begging me to come back, please come back before I head up the stairs.
photo via The Alexa Collection
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