Forced

There is nothing quite like the silence one feels when blindfolded. Deprivation of one sense accentuates the acuity of the remaining senses, and the empty nothingness that defined normal silence in this case is replaced by a sort of mute roar that envelopes the him. It’s the grand hum of soundless static. Occasionally he could hear her walking about in the next room, her platform heals making a pronounced and authoritative sound. Not exactly clicking, not exactly pounding: a clipped kuk, kuk, kuk. He could intermittently hear her voice as well; whether this was her speaking into the iPhone, he could not determine. Or perhaps there was someone else present and she was chatting to her/him. Maybe.

He had been lead to this place while being blindfolded. What he was doing prior to this station-stop is not important. Suffice it to say that his world has slowed to a crawl; even her voice was sounding like something he had once heard during a particularly intense acid trip; harmonious and distorted all at once. He loves her confidence, her unflappability. Other people admire her command, but to him, her command is reality and is thus unremarkable. Her command and control just is. Upon arrival to this vast and empty loft space, she crisply removed some, but not all of his clothing, and in his current state he cannot determine or remember what he has left on. He does know that he is in some fashion clothed by the thick hemp rope that she applied to his body in a serpentine manner. Perhaps shibari. Does he have both feet on the ground? Who knows? She is silently inspecting him now. Touching lightly here and there, warily circling and evaluating him. He can feel her warm breath on his cool flesh. He is frankly a bit chilly, but he dares not say so. His mouth is bound by an unusual gag that keeps his hole forced open and available. Far from ideal for speaking, and in any event, he has understood that any communications he embarks upon now will be of the non-verbal variety. He feels mummified. He is trussed, suspended and immobilized. He is blindfolded. His world is dark. It is quiet.

She is touching his head. Her long and lanky digits (can a finger be lanky?) lightly but firmly caress his skull. He is reluctant to tell her how much he loves this, for fear she will stop doing it. There are some things they discuss in great detail and others that are left unmentioned. Despite allowing him to get closer to her – over a matter of years – she is always on guard…mustn’t let him get too close. This caution does not seem to come from a place of fear, but rather some sort of rectitude or probity that he understands…and yet doesn’t understand. He has not questioned her. His fear – yes it is a fear – is that inviting her answers and interpretations will cement their friendship in a static state that will preclude, or at least render difficult, any future adjustments. He wants badly to explain his motivations and goals to her. He thinks she would approve, though not necessarily because she is ready to embark on them, but because he feels certain, he knows and feels, that she would find them appropriate. But instead, he enjoys the sifting sand under his feet: their interaction is not what it was six months ago, and most probably not what it will be in another six months. They are explorers; she the Captain, he the mate. She will pilot this ship to whatever port she chooses.

She is lightly caressing him all around, spinning him from his overhead, single-point suspension. She is laughing softly, compressing certain body parts with her hands and fingernails, others with accessories. He feels her warmth and her proximity in an almost reiki-like way. Soft. Warm. Gentle. Firm. An intense squeeze here (accompanied by giggles) , a soft caress there. Her laughter did not punctuate events, but provided a backdrop to them.

Silence again. Alone. He is a human pendulum, slowly drifting from his tether. Time passes… in his dark and quiet world…

How much time, he cannot say. She is now back. Her greased cock has swiftly negotiated it’s way up his ass without preamble or commentary. He is relaxing his sphincter, enjoying, staying in the moment, doing his best to please her. She is pumping furiously. Removal and re-load. Slightly softer, this cock, and warmer, but not squishy. A mouth sensuously envelopes his cock. Warm, wet, experienced. Her? Not important. It is her because it is she who is manipulating these events; she is the maestro. More. Change of position. Masculine grunting, from somewhere. Someone now in front, it’s her, twisting his nipples with a vengeance. The cock in his ass is now not moving, but the mouth on his cock working hard. His head is spinning, he’s short of breath, confused and aroused. She breaks the silence with talk of total ownership: he is her toy, her object. He will accept anything, the sole criteria being that she finds it amusing. She is no longer interested in his opinions or limits; his limits have simply been replaced by her own limits, the contours of which she has not shared with him yet. On other occasions, in different contexts, he is her dutiful pet, but presently he is just a thing, a holster for her cock, a slut to be used and enjoyed. She had waited a long time before training him like this. Gales of laughter dance about, and he dreams of her smile. He knows she is happy. Suddenly, a change of vibe, and demands to come are issued. He is close. “You have no choice”, she said simply while viciously but lovingly twisting his nipples. It was so; he had no choice.

He ejaculates in three pronounced spasms. “Good boy, pet”, she approvingly coos. Out of breath and spent he is unexpectedly greeted with a come-filled mouth. A long kiss from an unfamiliar mouth follows and he obediently sucks semen. Upon completion, the mouths uncouple, their work now done. She wants to command, “spit on him”, but she remembers that he cannot be submissive to a man. So she does it herself. She spits and spits and spits. And pulls and twists some more. It matters not that he has just ejaculated. His devotion is enhanced after release, as it should be. His whimpers begging her to stop only encourage her to continue.

Then, she was done. “Next time you will be violently raped”, she tells him matter-of-factly. He remains a pendulum, listening to the sound of her heels, and a second set of feet – bare feet - fading away to the distant reaches of the loft.