Smut Bedtime Story

Except for its inconspicuous lock, the door at the end of the
short hallway of Miranda’s middle-class home looked perfectly
ordinary.
But the windowless room beyond the locked door was a sexual
Never-Never Land, a fantastic reflection in a kinky Looking Glass.
While Miranda watched, amused, the key dangling from her finger, I
took one step inside, then another — and stopped, staring. My
heart was racing, my eyes wide. I had never seen anything like it
before.
Two walls were mirrored, from the tiled floor to the black-
painted ceiling. An incredible array of whips, restraints, gags,
and harnesses hung from the peg strips which circled the room at
waist height. Pushed into the near corner was a heavy padded
sawhorse; the center of the room was dominated by a wooden X-frame
solid as an oak and seven feet tall. Both the horse and the frame
were dotted with steel eyebolts, some of which sported dangling
chains or cuffs. All of it looked well used. None of it, as far as
I could tell, was for show.
And in the opposite corner, facing it all like a queen’s
throne, was a fan-backed rattan chair with thick ruby-red
cushions. A black riding crop rested across the seat.
It was a real dungeon, a dominant/submissive playground,
tucked into a back room in a perfectly ordinary home. And this
surprising wonderland belonged to my friend Miranda — a woman
whose dress and appearance wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at a PTL
meeting.
Whose usual dress and appearance, anyway. I turned back toward
Miranda, my mouth suddenly dry. “This is incredible,” I said. What
my eyes were saying, I didn’t know. But I was looking at her very
differently. My mind flashed on a picture of Miranda in black
corset on the fan-back chair, contemplating me bound naked on the
X-frame. My cock began to swell at the thought.
“You approve, then?” she asked archly, her eyes sparkling.
There was a tension between us at that moment of a kind that
had never surfaced before. She was at ease, self-amusedly waiting
to see what I would do. I was uncomfortable, and tempted to hide
behind a wisecrack. But for some reason I just swallowed, nodded,
and said quietly, “Yeah.”
Her next question cut to the heart of the tension. “Do you
want to try it?”
I couldn’t look away from her. “Yes. I — I do.”
She looked at me questioningly, as though I had said something
wrong.
“Yes, Mistress,” I amended, suddenly realizing why she was
waiting.
She smiled then, a pleased smile. “Then go back to the living
room, slave Alan, and take off all your clothes. Kneel in the
middle of the floor, and wait there until I come for you. I have a
few things to get ready.”
#
I undressed, heart pounding, still not quite believing what
was happening.
What was I getting into? How much could I trust her? Though
I’d known Miranda for more than two years, we lived in cities five
hundred miles apart. We had met at an education conference in
Raleigh — she was a testing specialist at a private college, I
was a placement counselor at a large university. We ended up
spending several hours together that weekend, in lecture sessions
and on a mass expedition for Chinese food. She smoothly and firmly
squelched my attempts to flirt with her, but even so, I had a
wonderful time in her company.
When we ran into each other at another conference later that
year, it was like finding a friend in a mob of strangers. We had
dinner together again (only five at the table this time) and sat
up late in the hotel bar on the last night, telling stories and
laughing. I wrote her a few letters over the next year, and she
called me a few times. But the tone was always friends-keeping-in-
touch. There was no hint or thought of romance. Miranda seemed to
be on a different wavelength, as though she didn’t play that game
at all. I confess I couldn’t quite figure her out, even though I
enjoyed her a great deal.
Then came the week-long counseling workshop in her home city,
my wonder-if-we-could-get-together call, her invitation to a
casual dinner at her house, and the free-ranging conversation that
kept coming back to sex.
Somehow I had found myself telling her more about my past and
my preferences than most of my lovers ever knew, and much more
than Miranda was telling me. Eventually I got to my interest in
what I knowingly called “D&S,” and how it was a shame that so few
women seemed to understand about the exchange of power and how
much fun it could be. I was pretending a familiarity I didn’t
have, and Miranda must have known it, but she let me blather on
for a time before calling my bluff by taking me down the hall.
And now here I was, kneeling naked in her living room with a
throbbing hard-on, staring my fantasy in the face. I knew what
most of the toys hanging in the dungeon were for. But my knowledge
was almost entirely academic, drawn from books like Exit to Eden
and a sampling of fem-dom porn. The games I’d played with lovers
past had been strictly amateur. Miranda was the real article, and
that scared me as much as it excited me.
Maybe it scared me because it excited me. Or excited me
because it scared me. I didn’t know how to tell the difference.
#
Minutes dragged past, and my knees and ankles began to
complain about the position I had assumed. Then I heard a door
open, and the click of heels in the hallway. I turned to look, and
found my hostess transformed into a stunning Mistress.
Her mane of wavy auburn hair was set off now by a studded
black choker. Her ample breasts seemed barely confined in a
leather halter laced only to the lower curves of her cleavage. She
wore fingerless elbow-length gloves and gleaming studded
wristlets. In her right hand was the crop, in the left a collar.
Her hips were sheathed in a tight leather wrap-skirt which bared
her beautiful thighs. Her stockings were black and sheer, her
shoes spike-heeled with ankle straps.
She was, in a word, gorgeous. My erection, which had flagged a
bit as I waited, stirred to new life. She noted, and smiled
wickedly. “Nice,” she said, looking directly at my cock. “I can
have fun with that.”
I found my voice. “You look fantastic, Mistress Miranda.
Incredibly sexy.”
“Did I give you permission to look at me, slave?”
My breath caught. “No, Mistress,” I said, and lowered my eyes.
Miranda laughed. “I want you to look at me. I want you to want
me. You can’t have me, of course. But wanting is good.”
She ordered me to crawl to her. Then, standing over me, she
said in a low voice that chilled me, “I’m going to take you to
that place you’ve been wanting to go. I’m going to teach you what
your body can feel. I’m going to play with you, and punish you,
and use you for my pleasure. I want more than your obedience. I
want your surrender. Do you understand?”
I said I did, hoping I did. She made me kiss her shoes and her
crop, and then placed the plain, heavy collar on my neck and
locked it in place. Pulling me up by the collar, she whispered a
“safe word” in my ear — which I silently vowed not to use. Then
she pushed me back down to hands and knees and led me to her
dungeon.
#
Miranda was in no hurry. She kept me kneeling before her
chair, my legs spread wide and my wrists cuffed and locked
together behind my back, while she asked me pointed questions
about my experience and my fantasies.
All the while, she kept touching me, teasingly. She toed my
balls with the point of her shoe, tapped my cock with the tip of
her crop, scraped and plucked my nipples with her nails. Once she
let me suck her middle finger, which I did eagerly. I wanted to
make her feel good, and that was the first chance she’d given me.
When she’d learned everything she wanted, she rose and led me
to the X-frame. My cuffed wrists were unhooked from each other,
then fastened high on the wooden crosspieces. Miranda selected a
second, larger pair of cuffs from the wall, and soon my legs were
spread wide, my ankles locked to the foot of the frame.
I had never felt so sexually vulnerable. I was facing out and
leaning back, completely helpless, completely exposed, my cock
hard as an eighteen-year-old’s and already dripping from the tip.
“I can see I’m going to have to do something about this,”
Miranda said, seizing my cock by the root. “You’ve obviously been
thinking about fucking me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I told the truth. “Yes, Mistress.”
She slapped the head of my cock smartly with her free hand,
making me gasp. “Forget it. You’ll be lucky if I fuck you.” Letting
go of my cock, she walked to her collection of sexual toys, and
returned with a small harness with several straps. “This should keep
this greedy little cock under control.”
A few moments later, my proud shaft was encased in a tight
leather sheath that exposed only the head. One strap went around
the root where she had grabbed me. Another went around my scrotum,
while a third separated the balls. It felt as though my entire
manhood was being squeezed in a fist. My cock throbbed, reddened.
Already, I desperately wanted to come.
But Miranda had other plans. Her next choice was a length of
rope with dozens of spring clothespins clamped to it. She gave me
one end of the rope to hold between my teeth, and then began to
decorate my body with the wooden clamps. She started with one on
either side of each nipple, pinching the skin with her fingers to
give the clip a good bite. Then she placed a clothespin directly
on my left nipple, and I moaned — and dropped the rope I was
holding for her.
“I’m going to add to your whipping for that,” she said as she
gave me back the end of the rope and resumed her project. The
other nipple was next, then the underside of my arms, the inside
of my thighs, and, finally, my cock. First, she tugged out enough
skin to attach one of the little biting monsters to each side of
my already harnessed scrotum. I almost bit through the rope. Then
she started on the engorged head of my cock, placing one, two,
four, seven clothespins in a semi-circle on the narrow, sensitive
ridge.
Taking the rope from me, she stepped back to admire her
handiwork. “Look at yourself, in the mirror,” she said.
I saw a naked man in complete submission, his limbs spread-
eagled and restrained, his throbbing cock tormented. I felt like I
was tripping. The tension in my body was incredible. My blood was
on fire. It was as though she was touching me in a hundred places
at once, and every one of them was making me crazy with desire. My
eyes closed, and I slipped down into the sea of sensation, leaving
thought behind.
Suddenly I jumped, writhing, as an electric jolt coursed
through me. My right nipple was suddenly burning. What was
happening? I opened my eyes to find that Miranda had folded the
length of rope twice over and was using it to strike the
clothespins from my body. Her aim was true, and every time she
knocked one free, thousands of nerve endings which had been
temporarily overloaded suddenly came back to life shouting
protests.
The last to go were the seven pins on the head of my cock. By
the time the last dropped to the floor, I was quivering and
hanging limply in my cuffs. Miranda stepped close and ran her
fingertips grazingly over my skin, the touch making me jump. Then
her hand closed around my sheathed cock, and her thumb rubbed the
wetness oozing from the tip all over the head.
“You took that well,” she said softly. “Maybe you’ll get lucky
after all. But first, I owe you a whipping.”
Miranda released me only long enough to turn me around, toward
the frame, so my back and bottom were exposed. I watched in the
mirror as she selected a short, many-stranded whip, then moved
behind me. She started with light strokes that barely warmed the
skin, leather kisses on my thighs and ass. The strokes came faster
and harder, until it felt like my skin was glowing. I stopped
watching. I stopped thinking.
Then Miranda traded the short whip for a long, stiff leather
paddle. The first blow from it lifted me off my heels and made me
cry out in surprise. She gave me little time to recover, applying
the paddle vigorously across both cheeks and the backs of my
thighs. The weight of the paddle and the strength of her arm
carried the shock of each explosion through my whole body. I
moaned, grunted, and fought against my chains.
But the incredible thing was that it didn’t hurt. I was past
that. It was a wake-up call to my senses, a charge of pure sexual
energy. All I was was what I was feeling, and all I was feeling
was wave after wave of delicious intensity. I was flying.
After a time I couldn’t measure, Miranda stepped up close
behind me, caressed my hot ass and said in a half-whisper, “Now,
the punishment I promised you.”
There was a long moment to wonder. Then I heard the whistle as
it cut the air, and I knew — it was the crop. And when it landed,
it felt like I was being sliced open, a line of fire burning into
my ass cheeks. My body went rigid, and when the crop fell a second
time I couldn’t hold it all in any more, and screamed. Twice more
the crop came down, and then Miranda drew close again, her body
brushing against me as she traced the scarlet, swollen marks the
crop had left.
She moved away again, leaving me to hang there on the wooden
frame, breathless, shoulders aching, all resistance gone, glowing
inside and out. Time dilated, stopped. The next touch was a hand
spreading my ass cheeks, and another hand smearing my opening with
a slippery gel, pushing a lubricated finger inside me.
“Now the reward you’ve been hoping for,” she said softly.
I raised my head and looked sideways at the mirror, and saw
that Miranda had shed her leather skirt. She was wearing a harness
that was like a leather G-string, and jutting out from it was a
long black dildo. I watched as she moved in behind me, guided the
head to my asshole, and pushed it up inside me.
It was blissful, humiliating, erotic. I was impaled,
stretched, violated. Miranda was fucking my ass, claiming
possession of me, and all I wanted to do was open to her and give
her whatever she wanted to take. And then she reached around my
waist and loosed the straps on my harness, freeing my cock from
its leather prison. She began to masturbate me, stroking my cock
in rhythm with her reaming of my ass.
With everything that had gone before, I was on the edge, and
had been for some time. Before long, my gasps and moans betrayed
my approaching orgasm. Miranda took that cue to bury the dildo
deep inside me, tighten her grip, and stroke my cock furiously.
After a long few seconds, I went over the edge, crying out and
writhing as my cock spurted long jets of come into the air.
#
Miranda took a Polaroid photo of me before she freed me, and
then allowed me to shoot one of her before she changed. I took
that photo, my memories, and the four crisscrossing red stripes
from the riding crop home with me on the plane. I don’t know when
I’ll next see my friend, or if she’ll ever favor me that way
again. But one thing is certain — I’ll never again think I know
someone if I haven’t seen what they keep, and who they are, behind
locked doors.