Give Back

Asian

All day, it had appeared that something stressful occupied her mind. The usually bubbly, cheery Sara was disturbingly quiet, a strong atmosphere of uncertainty surrounding her. I had initially simply given her plenty of space, not wanting to pry my fiancée into telling me what worried her so for fear of pushing her even further away from me. But by evening, I felt I had to do something to try to get her to either open up to me or at least lift her spirits a little, so I suggested we go out to dinner.

We agreed upon the nearby steakhouse, and walked the seven blocks to the restaurant. Once out of the house, Sara’s mood seemed to improve, slowly but noticeably. At the restaurant itself, she began to open up a bit more, until she was finally almost back to her usual bubbly self; I think even the waitress noticed as she gave Sara a few inquisitive looks whenever she came to refill our drinks.

As we finished dinner, Sara suddenly became deathly quiet and seemed to stare off to my right. After a moment, my gaze followed hers to watch another waitress leading a pair of customers to their table. He was dressed entirely in black casual clothes, yet he had such a strong sense of presence and leadership about him that my first thought was of a career military officer’s command presence, especially since everyone definitely took notice as he passed by each table. Behind him walked a similarly-dressed young woman – who was maybe twenty-one years old, and obviously at least ten years younger than the man – with her head constantly bowed and her eyes fixated upon his feet; what was really a bit surprising was that her wrists were crossed in front of her, almost as if they had been lashed into such a position by invisible ropes.

The strong sense of worry suddenly returned to Sara, practically pouring off her in near-tangible waves. Not surprisingly, she seemed to instantly retreat back to her former sad, stressed state. When I asked my fiancée what she thought of the young woman, she did not even look at me when she replied, “I don’t know.” I was unsure if she was trying to avoid the question, or if she really did not have an pinion (or was still formulating an opinion), but I knew that her interest must have been piqued at least slightly.

In time, we left the steakhouse and walked back home, just as the sun was setting over the distant mountain peak. Sara seemed to slowly come out of her shell during our evening stroll, but she still was not her usual cheerful self, which was truly starting to worry me, as I had never seen her this stressed in all the years I had known her. However, when we returned to the house and she said she was going to go take a long bubble bath, I figured that would help her to relax and lift her spirits, as it had usually worked quite successfully in the past.

As Sara took her bubble bath, I went to the living room, put on Sara’s favorite Amuro Namie CD on random-repeat, and sat with a friend’s manuscript, editing it so that she could make revisions before submitting it to her publisher. The tale was quite compelling, concerning a young sorceress and a pair of thieves who had essentially blackmailed her into assisting them in their quest to find the rumored treasure of a former king of a hostile land. Eventually, I heard Sara descend the creaky staircase, but was too involved in the tale to truly notice until I saw bare feet and legs at the edge of my vision and could just faintly discern the scent of strawberries from her favorite bubble bath scent.

After making another note in the margin, I looked up to find my fiancée standing before me, wearing nothing but a thin collar with a small D-ring at its front, the collar she had selected several years ago when we first began to explore the realm of BDSM. Given her moderately-depressed state for much of the day, I was rather surprised that Sara would appear before me in her submissive role, her head bowed and eyes fixed upon the floor. I was even shocked that she held her favorite leather slapper at her side, and then presented it to me as it lay across her open hands.

“Are you sure?”

She simply nodded.

I waited a moment, purposely hesitating so that I could further assess the situation, then closed the binder with my friend’s manuscript. Standing, I tipped her head upward and forced her to look me in the eyes.

“Why?”

“I need this, Sir.”

As soon as I removed my finger from underneath her chin, the submissive’s head dropped back to a bowed position, her eyes fixating upon my feet. I was almost unsure of what to do next, still stunned that Sara would wish to engage in bondage play after a day in which she seemed filled with such confusion and distress and sadness. Even now, after her long strawberry-scented bubble bath, she was still definitely not her usual bubbly self.

Taking the slapper from the submissive’s hands, I simply pulled her close istanbul travesti for a long hug. Almost immediately, she seemed to soften in my arms, as if the simple physical contact was slowly driving away the negativity and aiding the return of the cheerful young woman I had met so long ago.

After several minutes had passed, I suddenly struck her naked ass with the slapper, her yelp and her tighter grasp on me indicating her surprise. Just as her hold on me began to lighten, I struck her again, this time causing her to grunt softly into my chest. After another pause, I struck her again, a bit harder than before, and this time she remained silent, although her breathing was now coming a bit faster.

My favorite song from the CD – “I know…” – came on, and an idea washed over me. The blows from the slapper came much faster now, in rhythm with the instrumental music, alternating between very soft and very hard strikes. By the end of the song a few minutes later, the submissive’s ass was definitely quite red, and she was crying softly as she held me tightly.

However, each strike of the slapper had caused her to involuntarily buck into me, and her near-constant motion now had me as hard as a mountain. More from a need to compose myself than anything else, I relinquished my hold on the young woman and backed away, leaving her arms empty. Through her tears, she looked up at me, brushing her long hair away from her face. Despite the obvious pain, she seemed to glow a little, with a hint of a smile. That, combined with the fact that she had used neither her safeword nor her safegesture, made me feel much more at ease about the entire situation. Still, I needed a bit more time.

“Go upstairs and prepare the bed,” I instructed.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, bowing her head slightly, then turning and slowly leaving the living room. Watching her as she ascended the many steps, the redness of her behind was very prominent. Once she had disappeared from sight and I could no longer hear the steps creaking, I turned off the music and made my way to the kitchen, still a bit perplexed at how this evening was progressing given the events of the day. Once I had prepared two glasses of ice water, I mounted the stairs myself, the slapper and the two glasses carried upon a small tray. Arriving at the bedroom, I found the young submissive standing beside the bed, head bowed, awaiting an instruction, with three new pillar candles lit, the mirror behind them reflecting their light back into the room to illuminate it just a little more than what one might expect from just three candles.

Setting the tray upon a dresser, I checked the bed. She had picked out a set of thick black leather cuffs, each connected by a heavy silver chain to a hook strategically placed underneath the bed. She had also protected the bedposts and the bedframe with a thick velvet wrapping, to guard against scratching or cutting into the wood (a system we used in our bondage play to ensure that no one who might visit would suspect anything unusual). I was somewhat amazed that she had done all this so quickly, but then realized that perhaps we had neglected to remove the velvet protectors after our last play session earlier in the week.

Placing a hand upon her shoulder, I gently nudged the submissive to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Taking the two glasses of water, I handed one to her, then sat beside her. We both slowly drank in silence as she leaned into me. I simply placed a hand upon her thigh, and we drank, enjoying the dimly-lit silence. I could feel her relaxing a little more; if she had not been so uptight and stressed during the day, this simple act might even be somewhat romantic.

When we had both finished drinking, I stood, took her glass, and set both glasses upon the tray. With a gesture, I instructed the submissive to lay upon the bed, and she slowly complied. In silence, I moved around the bed, buckling each thick leather cuff to the nearest ankle or wrist. Then I moved to the foot of the bed and looked down upon her, spread before me, completely nude save for the cuffs and the collar, completely vulnerable, completely unprotected, completely breathtaking. Reaching down near her left ankle, I gave the chain a slight tug, finding that she had permitted herself very little slack. My eyes then tracked up her body, imperceptibly caressing her until they reached her face, and I saw that her eyes were already closed; she was already in her “zone” and awaiting the resumption of the night’s activity.

Returning to the dresser, I picked up the slapper from the tray and moved to the bed, sitting beside the willing captive. Bending down, I gave her a long, slow kiss, moved downward to gently tug at a nipple with my teeth, then sat up once more. For a long time, I simply dragged the split-leather end of the slapper across her face and neck, up and down each anadolu yakası travestileri arm, across her chest, up and down the sides of her torso, across the stomach, down and up each leg, then the gentle contact abruptly ended.

Out of the corner of my vision, I saw her eyes open and her head lift, just in time to see the slapper in the air on the downstroke; she had just enough time to emit a small squeak of surprise before fierce contact was made between her legs, turning the squeak into a semi-grunt. For an unknown length of time, I purposely alternated between dragging the slapper across her body and using it to batter her. She struggled beautifully with each strike, her soft vocalizations music to my ears, her eyes clamped shut throughout virtually the entire ordeal as she internalized the sensations.

Finally, it was time to pick up the pace, so I pummeled her with the slapper, with virtually no pauses between strikes, until tears emerged from behind her closed eyelids and cascaded down her cheeks, her pain-reddened body writhing as much as possible against the near-slackless bonds as her “fight or flight” instinct came suddenly into full force. Her loud cries filled the room with every strike now, the tears and the sweat upon her quite evident in the dim reflected light from the candles. Yet she used neither her safeword nor her safegesture throughout the entire onslaught.

The final, most vicious blow of the night struck with precision between the willing captive’s legs, causing her to truly howl loudly as her body involuntarily bucked and writhed in its futile effort to escape the desired abuse. Tossing the slapper toward the foot of the bed, I quickly plunged several fingers into her, finding her quite hot and wet inside despite the punishment she had desired and endured. As much as I wanted to rip off my clothes and drive myself deep into the core of this beautiful submissive, I knew deep inside that the night’s activities were much more for her benefit than for mine, so I contented myself with masturbating her fiercely, her cries of pain quickly becoming cries of pleasure and then cries of repeated orgasms until her entire body at last fell limp from exhaustion.

Slowly extricating myself from inside her, I licked her essence from my fingers and hand, relishing the exquisite taste as her heavy breathing filled my ears. Her unique scent permeated the bedroom, and I had to remind myself once again – with some sense of frustration – that this night was for her and not for me. Glancing over at the candles, I considered giving the willing submissive a waxing, but instead decided to save that for another play session; after all, she had come to me with the slapper, not with a candle.

Instead, I reached around her, unbuckling the four leather cuffs and letting them fall toward the floor, then lay beside her on the bed, taking the beautiful woman into my arms and cuddling her until she had finally calmed from the play session. In time, she rolled me to my back and lay upon me, her weight pressing nicely into me. Flicking her hair out of her face, she lay her head against my shoulder, and we simply caressed each other for a long time, sharing occasional kisses.

“Sir?” she whispered at last into my ear, her soft voice almost taking me by surprise after such a long silence. “May I make a request, Sir?”

“Of course, Little One.”

She hesitated, a long pregnant pause filling the bedroom. After taking and releasing a deep breath near my ear, she whispered, her voice nearly cracking, “Would You be willing to accept me as Your 24/7 slave, Sir?”

This was it. Now I knew what had troubled her so much during the day. I now realized just why she suddenly seemed to reenter her shell when the man and his (likely) slave were being taken to their table at the steakhouse earlier in the evening. This was why she had suddenly appeared before me dressed in only a collar after her bubble bath. Three years before, she had confessed her interest in BDSM, and we had decided to explore this intriguing realm together; now she was trying to prove to me that she was both willing and able to take the next step in our shared journey.

“Are you certain about this, Sara?” I asked, specifically using her real name even though we had long ago agreed that it would be avoided whenever she wore a collar for me. “Is this REALLY what you want?”

“Yes, Sir. I feel that I have come a long way as Your submissive, and You have definitely surpassed my expectations as my Master. Even though we only play a few times per week, we have taught each other so much.” Her voice began to crack, as if she were fighting back tears. “I want to much to be more to You, to truly and fully belong to You. I truly hope that You will accept me as Your full-time slave, Sir. Our occasional play sessions are istanbul travesti certainly nice and enjoyable, but…”

She began to cry softly, so I simply held her as tightly as I could. My mind reeled with possibilities – after all, I had also been giving thought to what a full-time Master-slave relationship would be like between us. However, I quickly realized that it was not the right time.

…not yet.

“I think it is best that we postpone any such arrangement for now, Little One.”

Sara lifted herself up to look down upon me, a hint of disbelief in her facial expression. It was obvious that she wanted to say something, but was unsure of exactly what she should say.

“We still have several months before our wedding,” I told her, “and there is still much to do. It would be best for now for us to focus upon becoming husband and wife first, before becoming Master and slave. I hope you understand.”

Sara simply nodded, a slight smile emerging upon her lips. I found myself returning her smile just before she suddenly descended upon me and smothered my face with quick kisses. I giggled softly as I held her to me, thrilled to see her now returning to her bubbly, cheery self.

The kisses suddenly stopped, and she lifted herself up to again look down at me. “Then can our 24/7 relationship begin with our honeymoon?” she asked with a larger smile. “Please, Sir?”

I thought for a moment as she sat up, straddling my waist, almost certainly knowing that I enjoy seeing her in this position. Here was a longtime friend turned girlfriend turned live-in fiancée, barely able to wait to become both a wife and a slave to me, and I thought about just how lucky I was at that point in my life. I tended to be rather scruffy and barely made enough money to survive on my own while she was rather sophisticated and making nearly a six-figure income every year, yet she was still willing to stick with me through thick and thin, for better or for worse, beyond the end of forever.

Seeing Sara nude as she straddled my waist was a definite distraction, so I sat up and held her close, burying my face in her neck as I considered the possibilities. After a few moments, I whispered into her ear the only response which could possibly make any sense:

“Definitely.”

We shared a long, loving kiss, then she hugged me tightly. “I know just how we can begin being both husband and wife AND Master and slave, Sir,” she whispered into my ear.

“What do you have in mind?” I whispered back.

“On the first night of our honeymoon,” she suggested, “I want to be bound in my wedding dress when You make love to me for the first time as your wife. Then I will also be Your slave, Sir.”

After having seen several images from the Internet of women bound in wedding dresses, the suggestion was nearly too good to be true. I hesitated a moment, only to image what it would be like to see her bound before me wearing her wedding dress. “Then so it shall be, Little One.”

And now, looking through the viewfinder, as the sun dips below the horizon of the ocean and a gentle salt-scented breeze comes upon the shore, I take note that my wife and my slave is wearing her pure-white wedding dress with special-made white leather cuffs around each wrist and ankle, each cuff connected by a thick long white rope to the metal stakes driven into the sand of this private beach. Through the thin veil, the special- made ball gag and blindfold – both also white – can be seen. Barely visible is the special-made white collar, worn outside the collar of her wedding dress; only its center silver D-ring really announces its presence. While not part of our original plan, the breast bondage is a beautiful, subtle touch – just barely noticeable with the thick white rope almost the exact same color as the wedding dress, yet succeeding in making her breasts somewhat prominent. The white stockings and heels are certainly rather unrealistic for a beach setting, especially at sunset, but they complete the overall look quite nicely.

The small camcorder rests patiently on its tripod, capturing the scene from restraint to ravishing to release. With the iBook resting on a small fold-out table beside me, I plan to transfer these images from the digital camera to the computer to create a screensaver when we return home, and we may post a few of these images on the Internet as well.

After all, we have both enjoyed seeing images of other women bound in wedding dresses. We may even edit the videotape and sell it on eBay for others to enjoy – as I am sure we will time and time again. In these ways, we can give back to the Internet’s BDSM community for all the information and inspiration we have received over the years.

Most importantly, this “ceremony” is a way that I can give back to her – now my wife and also my slave – the undying love and trust and devotion that she has given to me. I realize now that she was extremely fearful that I might push her away at the suggestion of becoming my full-time slave; this is really my way of thanking her for the suggestion, because I had never suggested it to her due to the same fear.

And now to set aside the digital camera, shed the tuxedo, and bring the ceremony to completion…


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