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Message-ID: <32796asstr$1002021004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: misskittyfantastico@dwp.net (K. Light)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 2 Oct 2001 01:53:47 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Facing the Music (Femdom, bdsm)
Date: Tue,  2 Oct 2001 07:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are the product of the author's imagination. The story
contains sexual and bdsm imagery.  If you are offended by such
material, if you are under age, or if it is illegal for you to
download, read, or possess such material, then please delete the file
without reading any further.


He was curled up on his bed, eyes unfocused, remembering:

He remembered the first time they'd chatted online; him flirting
shamelessly. Curious, overeager, frustrated beyond words that she
wouldn't play with him. His clueless questions, her patient answers.

The first time they'd met for coffee. The feeling as soon as he'd seen
her that this was right, that they matched somehow.  The way a look
from her could make him blush and drop his eyes. The way she'd smiled
when they parted, and tousled his hair, and he'd butted his head into
her hand, like an overgrown kitten. She'd scratched him gently behind
one ear then, grinning, and he'd tried to purr.

The first time they'd scened. Her fingers playing soothingly in his
hair as he knelt by her chair, eyes closed, relaxing into submission. 
The way he'd laid across her lap, writhing, begging to be spanked
harder.  The incredible rush he'd felt when she was flogging him,
endorphins flooding his system. Her voice growling lowly in his ear,
warning him just what would happen if he came without permission.
Padded cuffs locked around his wrists when he couldn't hold still on
his own. Her hands, exploring him, opening him. His voice hoarse in
his ears as he babbled, words incomplete, begging for more. Her voice
again, telling him how good he was, how proud she was of him, lulling
him to sleep.
 
The way he'd felt cold and lost and alone the next day, back in his
own home.

Trying to tell his best friend, to explain that it wasn't casual, and
it wasn't even sex, maybe, since she'd been dressed the whole time and
he'd never been allowed to cum. Jay's confused smile, telling him that
so long as he was happy, that was the important thing. Trying again to
explain -- needing to explain -- how whole he'd felt, how free, but
giving up finally when it was clear that he wasn't getting anywhere.

The day he'd first met her husband, who'd smiled and hugged him, and
told him it was really okay (because he was pale and sweating and
looked like he was going to either throw up or pass out). And who then
promised to kick his ass but good if he ever hurt her. Being treated
like he was one of the family.

Her voice on the phone one day when he told her about the trouble he'd
gotten in the night before with Jay. Her laughing comment that if he'd
been her slave instead of her playpartner, he'd be in SO much trouble.
The way his heart pounded, his belly clenched, at her words. His
nerves jangling as he asked hesitant questions about the difference.

The first time she'd put a collar on him. He'd stripped like usual,
but then she told him "jewelry too", and he'd taken off his rings and
necklace. It was an old collar, not a special one just for him, but he
hadn't cared. He was hers now, and the collar showed it. He'd spent
the weekend, and she didn't take it off him until it was time for him
to leave. He'd felt naked for days afterwards.

The first time he'd worn his own collar. She'd asked him to spend a
week during his vacation, and he'd jumped at the chance. When he'd
stripped, she'd told him to close his eyes. Her hands were cool on his
throat as she collared him, and he heard the click of a lock.  When
she'd told him to look, she'd held a mirror before him. It was simple,
and didn't really look like what it was,  he'd thought. More like just
unusual jewelry, maybe. It was a simple string of lapis and silver
beads, strung on thin steel cable. She moved it around to show him the
back, and it was just a small silver disk, with a keyhole. "Deniable"
she'd called it. When she'd unlocked it the next Friday, he couldn't
help crying. But she made the rules, and he was only allowed to wear
his collar when he was with her. She'd held him for over two hours
before he could drive himself home.

The rules she'd given him because he wasn't taking care of himself.
Rules about getting enough sleep, and drinking less, and eating
healthier, and no more drugs. Rules that helped him feel safer, even
when his friends teased him about being a wuss. Finding out that
punishment meant no playtime. He'd rarely broken any of her rules
since.

The first time he'd fought with her, yelled at her, asking why she'd
bothered to get him a deniable collar if he wasn't allowed to wear it
in public anyway. She'd let him yell until he'd run down, then
reminded him that there would still be plenty of people who would
guess what it was, and he could get in trouble. She didn't think he
was ready for that, no matter how much he begged.

Her shock when he asked her for permission to get a tattoo. He'd
always sworn he'd never get one, the idea scared him half to death,
and she knew it. He showed her the photo he'd edited, of her name,
stylized, on the back of his neck, with "property of" above it in
script. He'd drawn in the collar too, so the placement would be right.

The way he'd felt a month later when she held his hand while he was
marked for her. Jay's face when he'd showed him. The satisfaction he'd
felt knowing that IT could never come off. The annoyance he'd felt
that everyone insisted he had to wear shirts with collars now. Her
laughing assurance that SHE knew it was there. And HE knew it was
there. And no one else mattered.

The knock on his door far too early this morning, when a small box was
delivered. The note that said only  "Don't open me yet."

Her brief call a few minutes ago, during his party, wishing him a
happy birthday and telling him to open the box, and she'd talk to him
later.

The way his hands trembled as he opened the box and saw his collar,
unlocked. The note that said "You can put it on. But you'd better be
sure. Because only I can ever unlock it again. And I don't think I
ever will."

He stood and walked to the mirror, watching himself. Struggled for a
second with the knot on his necklace before just snapping the cord.
Smiled into his own happy eyes as he locked the collar around his
neck. Pulled off the shirt he'd worn earlier and slipped on his
favorite t-shirt, the one with "SLAVE" in big glittery letters.  And
went back out to his party, ready to face the music.

-30-

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