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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Fifteen Minutes {Maureen Lycaon} (M/F, M/Fdom, bd, sm, nosex)
Date: Sat, 22 Feb 2003 16:10:02 -0500
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FIFTEEN MINUTES

@Copyright December 2002, Maureen Lycaon. Permission
is granted to propagate this story via normal Usenet
means (but don't repost it, please; I can do that
myself); to include it in the official Web archive for
alt.sex.stories.moderated, as well as such Usenet
archives as Google; and to retain one hard copy and
two electronic files for your own use. If you want
your friends to see it, don't email it to them;
instead, direct them to my archive (URL below). All
other rights reserved under the Berne Convention.

Author's notes: this is a consensual BDSM story. If
you shouldn't or don't want to be reading such things,
don't read this. All characters are fictional, not
intended as a real-life guide to BDSM, etc.

My story archive is at:
http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html




FIFTEEN MINUTES

By Maureen Lycaon



"He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, he is
ignorant -- instruct him."
-- Part of a Buddhist aphorism



Though he was only twenty-eight when I first met him,
Morgan was no stranger to harsh play.

He'd placed himself in the hands of several good
mistresses and two male masters, had been tied and
whipped, even flogged with a singletail more than
once. He had a pronounced taste for these games, and
he could take a lot.

Once he had faith in a top, he could easily submit to
being restrained, knowing what would happen: that he
would be hurt, and hurt a lot -- perhaps enough to
make him cry out in pain.

Nevertheless, in some ways he was still a fresh,
untried novice. He wasn't weighed down with that
cynicism that a submissive can get after too many
encounters with incompetent tops. And no master or
mistress had yet demanded of him that he submit to
pain of his own will, without rope or shackle.

When he came to me, he was seeking something new,
something he hadn't yet done. He knew the basics, and
wanted to learn more. Several others in the scene,
knowing that he was looking for a domme who could be
not only a top but also a true teacher, had
recommended me to him.

Before our very first session, I laid down a rule. I
would never bind him so that he could not escape,
except as a *reward*. I would give him nothing, except
what he submitted himself to without bonds. The only
bondage I would allow him would be the chain of his
own will, and that alone would have to suffice while
he suffered for me.

He hesitated at first, but in the end he consented.



As I lead him into the candlelit room, Morgan still
seems a trifle skeptical. He looks around, taking in
the racks of whips and canes and crops and other
tools. In fact, I don't plan to use them, this time.

I look at him, admiring the beauty of his lean, hard
body, with its narrow hips, belly so flat that it's
almost hollow, the long legs. He's naked, of course,
except for the leather restraint cuffs I put on his
wrists earlier -- mostly for the visual effect. He has
lovely long sable-brown hair, nearly black in the
candlelight, framing an equally lean face. The short
beard and mustache, not much more than stubble, add
just a touch of extra masculinity.

I stand, waiting without speaking, letting his
attention come back to me naturally.

Then I look into his eyes. He has the most remarkable
deep, pale green eyes. Caution flickers in them,
mingling with hope and curiosity. He's waiting to see
what I will do . . . wondering if I'm as good as he's
heard.

"Go to the center of the room, and stay there," I
order him. I keep my voice soft, level. Not the
sharpness of a military commander like so many male
tops use. I like it better knowing that a submissive
will obey my softest word.

He does so without a word. I walk over to the wall to
get the one prop I need.

The chain is a big one, perhaps four feet long, with
links an inch thick, solid steel. I take it off the
hook, walk back to him with it, and lay it down on the
floor at his feet, pulling on it so that it lies
nearly straight. He looks satisfactorily puzzled --
not afraid -- looking down briefly at the chain, then
at me.

"Kneel down on it," I tell him.

He does so, beginning to kneel down carefully so that
the chain is running under his shins.

"No," I say, stopping him as he gets one knee down.
"Get your knees on the chain, not your shins."

The changing expressions on his face are a lovely
warm-up pleasure: the puzzlement leaves him, replaced
by growing comprehension as he gets down into the
proper position. He knows it'll hurt a lot more with
his knees on the chain, and he knows now that that's
the idea. All skepticism is gone from his eyes now.

He obeys without question, shuffling his knees onto
it. He winces slightly as he settles down, getting
used to the pain, and rests his hands on his thighs.

"Stand up on your knees -- spread your legs a bit
wider. No, wider still," I instruct. "Now, cross your
wrists, behind your back. Yes. That's fine, just like
that."

I feel the first surge of pleasure in my cunt as I
look down at him kneeling there, naked, obedient. His
mane of silky dark hair spills down onto his shoulders
and chest, reaching just short of his nipples. Between
his long thighs, framed by the plentiful bushy hair of
his groin, his pale penis hangs limp. His chest moves
slowly with his breathing, already a trifle uneven.

He gazes back at me, waiting for my next words.

"Do you think you can stay there for fifteen minutes
like that? Will you bear that, for me?" I ask him
softly.

After a short pause, he nods. "Yes. I think so."
Considered, not an automatic reassurance or a boast.

"Fifteen minutes, then." I flick my watch into
stopwatch mode and set it.

Circling around to stand behind him, I take his wrists
in my own hands. Submissive, obedient, he lets me
guide them into the position I want. I hold his wrists
together, then take a little stout metal clip from my
pocket, thread it through the cuffs' D-rings and snap
it closed, pinning his hands behind his back. That
won't keep him on his knees, of course; he could
simply roll off the chain if he really wanted to. It
just keeps his hands where they can't obscure my view
of his body.

Then I step off to the side, to savor his loveliness
as he endures this pain for me. And he *is* lovely.
The golden light of the candles defines every muscle
beautifully, highlights the fine dark hairs on his
skin, as he kneels in that submissive position. He
lowers his head slightly to keep his gaze on the floor
as I watch, and some of that tumble of dark hair falls
down around his face, half-obscuring it.

I look at him for some time, just enjoying myself, as
he kneels there. I know how it feels: that cold metal
biting into his knees without relief, digging into his
skin, forced into it by the weight of his body. He
squirms a little, ever so slightly, shifting in a
vain, reflexive attempt to settle himself more
comfortably. It hurts more now than he realized when
he said "yes"; without distractions, the pain is
sinking in.

I just have to touch that masculine beauty. I step
closer, reach out and run my hand down his shoulder,
over that well-muscled back. Already, I can see and
feel the beginnings of quivering tension, like steel
cables tightening under the skin. He inhales, then
breathes out softly.

Two minutes. I can really lose myself in staring at
him . . .

As he keeps his eyes upon the floor, his hair partly
conceals his face. I want to see it. I want to see the
growing pain reflected in his face.

I walk around him to stand in front, then slip my hand
under his chin, feeling the short bristly fur of his
beard pressing into my fingertips.

"No, don't hide your face," I murmur. "Let me see
you."

With a slight effort -- his neck muscles are starting
to tense -- he lifts his head obediently. I feel
another warm flush run through my vulva as his gaze
meets mine. The pain already shows in those pale eyes
and the little stress-lines around them, in the
tension in the corners of his jaw. His knees are
starting to hurt, really hurt.

I lock eyes with him, watching that growing tension,
for some time. I only break off to step back and walk
around to the side, wanting to admire him from a
distance again. He lets his head hang, returning his
gaze to the floor. I can glimpse little beads of sweat
beginning to form on the skin of his arms. He shifts
his weight uncomfortably again, but he doesn't move
his knees on the chain; he knows better than that.
He's breathing more deeply now, audibly, through his
nose.

I glance at my stopwatch: it's been four and a half
minutes. He must have glimpsed the motion with side
vision, at least, but he doesn't ask me how much time
is left; he knows better than that, too, and that I
won't tell him. He has to depend upon me to watch the
time.

He takes a deep breath, heaves a sigh, as his pain
grows worse. Those metal links must be really digging
into his knees now. I can see it in the quivering
muscles of his thighs, the way he moves his arms in
the restraints, the body's automatic response to pain,
the little aborted attempts to escape it. His
breathing is getting rough, uneven.

I study his penis, still dangling between his
wide-spread thighs. It might be a little lifted,
perhaps, but he's not really getting hard yet.

Seven minutes now, and the real pain is hitting him,
rising up into his thighs. It's obvious in the way he
breathes, the sweat now gleaming on his skin. His legs
quiver, the muscles in his face going taut. He squirms
restlessly, striving to keep his knees on the chain.
Is he beginning to regret promising me fifteen whole
minutes?

I step in close, stroking his hair to remind him of my
presence and get his attention.

"It hurts, doesn't it," I murmur in his ear. "That
steel seems to bite into your knees. The ache is
climbing up from your knees into your thighs and your
groin." He shivers at the words, head lifting a
little, breath catching in his throat.

"You can't get up. You can do nothing to stop the
pain.

"Imagine . . ." I whisper, my lips so close to his ear
that he could feel me breathing on it if the pain
didn't occupy so much of his attention. "Imagine what
it would be like if it were more than fifteen
minutes."

He shudders, his face contorting in a quick flash of
agony, a half-formed groan dying in his throat.

"Yes. You could be kneeling on that chain for much
longer than fifteen minutes, you know. Imagine what it
would be like to be bound here, unable to rise, unable
to relieve your pain in any way. I'd leave you like
this for hours and hours while I leave the house,
perhaps shopping, perhaps just taking a long walk. And
each time I would think of you, I'd know you were in
agony, suffering for me, at my will . . ."

Another, more pronounced tremor runs through him as he
gasps. I caress his body now, fingers trailing down
his damp back, waiting to feel the next shiver
directly under my hand.

"Imagine not me here, but a male master standing
before you . . . making you suck his cock as you kneel
there. Slowly, softly, lovingly . . . showing him your
devotion, your obedience. You must remain there until
you have made him come -- and he is an expert in
withholding his pleasure . . ."

He actually whimpers then, the iron in him breaking a
little. This time, my hand feels the shiver as it
passes through his body. The muscles under my hand are
steel-taut. I look down between his thighs -- and
incredibly, deliciously, he *is* getting hard, his
penis stiffened to half-mast.

I squat down beside him, reach out one hand, gently
palm that warm arousal.

Ten minutes gone. His pain is obvious now; his whole
body is one tight muscle, growing tighter as I watch,
the muscle in his cheek quivering underneath the mask
of sweat.

Softly, so softly it wouldn't do much on its own, I
run one finger along his penis. Gods, I can just
imagine what he's feeling. Pleasure . . . pain . . .

"You can do nothing," I say softly into his ear again,
my warm moist breath blowing gently upon it. The
gentleness of my touch, the cruelty of my demand . . .
what a delicious contrast this must be for him. I can
feel my cunt getting damp.

"You can do nothing. You suffer because I wish it, at
my will, because I command it. You cannot even think
of disobeying me. You can only kneel there, and suffer
. . ."

A groan breaks from his throat at those words, a
prolonged groan of pain -- and pleasure. His head goes
back, eyes closed, long hair spilling down his
shoulders and his back. He shivers on his knees, the
pain filling and passing through his whole body. Gods,
what a glorious sight!

He's almost all the way hard now, his cock arching up,
the tip darkened. I softly trail my fingertips along
the underside of that stiffened flesh, making him arch
again. His eyelids screw themselves shut as he groans
once more, louder this time. A drop of sweat falls to
the floor, followed by another. More sweat is running
down his flanks and his thighs now.

It's such vanilla, really. No whip, no paddle, none of
the elaborate paraphernalia that can be used to
generate the magic. Just the chain, and a simple
command that has become an exquisite torture.

Thirteen minutes, seventeen seconds, and he's really
in agony now. His breath is strained, tortured,
painful just to hear. Sweat drips steadily to the
floor, leaving tiny damp puddles on the wooden planks.
With each wave of fresh pain, his back arches, and as
his head goes back, his face is a study in anguish.
Gods, how that chain must hurt . . . perhaps all the
more because there is no distraction now, save my
fingertips lightly caressing him now and then. Little,
involuntary whimpers break from his throat with almost
every breath.

I run a slow hand down him again, from the nape of his
neck underneath the hair, down his spine and the small
of his back, down to his tightly-clenched buttocks.
His whole body is taut and quivering as he writhes
slowly on his knees, struggling to remain obedient,
not to cry out. I take away my hand, and the palm is
drenched with sweat, the room heavy with the rank,
musky smell of it.

My mouth goes to his ear again.

"Suffer for me, Morgan!"

I don't think the jerk of his head that follows is in
his control. I draw back as he cries aloud at my
words, cries out his agony and his passion, face
contorted, eyes screwed shut -- and a single tear
trickles from the corner of his eye down his cheek, to
lose itself in his beard.

The precum drips from the very tip of his cock onto
the floorboards, sparkling in the light from the
candles.

Only when the shock of that beautiful, raw sexuality
releases its grip upon me do I check my stopwatch.
It's been fifteen minutes.

For a moment, I let myself toy with the idea of not
telling him, of letting him stay there in his agony,
while I play with his rigid cock until he comes. I
won't, of course. An orgasm isn't the idea this time.
And he has done what I asked: given me fifteen minutes
kneeling on the chain.

I quickly step behind him, opening the clip that
connected the wrist cuffs, releasing his hands from
bondage. "Okay, you can get off the chain now."

He rolls off the chain to collapse slowly onto his
side on the floor, gasping open-mouthed, relief etched
clearly on his face. His knees show the vivid dark
marks left by the links grinding into the thin flesh
there. Pain flashes across his face again as blood
returns to the bruised flesh. His erection is slowly
subsiding. The pain begins to pass, and he *whews*,
wiping his face with one arm.

As he relaxes, lying on the floor, I'm all over him,
stroking, soothing: "It's over. It's over." I take a
moment to unbuckle his wrist cuffs, tossing each one a
little ways aside onto the floor as I remove it.

There's no way he can get up and walk for a while. I
sit down carefully cross-legged and take his head in
my lap, letting him rest like that as he comes down.

We stay like that together -- him lying quietly, eyes
closed, recovering; me looking down at his handsome
face and stroking his long, damp hair. His breathing
slows, eases. I savor the warm, musky man-smell that
rises from his sweaty skin.

Finally, he seems almost all the way back. He shakes
his head, whews again, says only, "Wow".

"Think you can walk now?" I ask.

"Yeah . . . I think so."

"Come on," I tell him. "Let's go to the bedroom."

His legs are so stiff, they're nearly paralyzed. Even
trying to straighten them makes him wince. Once he has
them back under his control, I move in to help him,
taking one hand in mine and guiding him to put his arm
around my shoulders. With my help, he slowly and
awkwardly manages to get to his feet.

A few minutes later, I'm rubbing salve into his knees
as he lies on the bed. The imprints of the chain
aren't as deep as they looked in the playroom; he has
only a few small bruises, but the crimson marks will
persist for hours.

"How did you feel?" I ask. "You looked like you went
deeper than you expected."

"Yeah, I sure did." His brows furrow in thought as he
considers, then: "Having to control myself like that .
. . It was very different. You're right, it's a
different thing." He paused; I waited. "In a way, I
felt . . . even more helpless than when I'm tied and
can't get away. Not as scared . . . but more helpless.
More excited, too," and he actually manages a faint
grin.

I nod, stroking his hair. "Before, you didn't have to
*do* anything once the cuffs were buckled. Nothing was
asked of you. This *is* different."

He wipes his face with one arm again. He's still
floating in subspace a little. We stay there together
for a while: he, lying comfortably on his back, coming
down; I, sitting on the bed beside him, gazing down at
his handsome body. There's a lingering faint
glistening of sweat on it, which emphasizes the curves
and planes of his flesh.

He heaves a sigh, and asks me, "How did I do?"

"You were wonderful," I answer him honestly. "Just as
beautiful as a man can be. I'm proud of you. You
stayed on your knees on that chain for the full
fifteen minutes, just because I told you to. You
should be proud of yourself."

I move up to look deeply into his green eyes, and see
by their sudden brightening that he understands me.

"Would you like to learn more of that, later on?" I
ask.

"Yes," he says, and the touching little smile that
curves his lips echoes my own.

I lean over him, and our mouths join in a long, dreamy
kiss.



I live for feedback. Direct it to:
maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . The URL to my archive is in
the author's notes at the top.

This story carries the codes: (M/F, M/Fdom, bd, sm,
nosex)
 
The code "M/Fdom" means this story pairs an adult male
character with a dominant adult female character.

For other codes, and how they can help you find the
stories you want, see:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/code/scfr.htm
The Story-Code FAQ for readers.

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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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