part twelve: the Safeword is Eisenhower
I was somehow disappointed to have a safeword in this context; it felt a little like I was being given the role of both bride and potential wedding party objector.
Would I have married a man who didn’t give me a safeword in a situation like that?
Short discussion; thought not required: No.
Certainly, the word was effective: pretty safe assumption that I had never before screamed the name of the 34th President of the United States when in the throes of passion or the pit of pain — a record that I did not end up breaking.
And the safeword did what safewords are meant to do: it freed me.
I could scream.
I could beg.
I could struggle and I could swear.
Safe, always, in the knowledge that Jason — and Genevieve — would implacably proceed, that the ordeal would roll on, unless I hit, unless I merely nudged, that single button.
I gagged on Jason’s cock — and Genevieve’s strap-on — knowing full well that, even absent the ability to speak, grunting or tapping out the four syllables of Ike’s name would summon for me instant relief.
I “submitted to the crop,” something I’d never done before — and would never do after — safe in the knowledge that I was making a choice.
And, as what they referred to as the pièce de résistance, for the first time in my life, I also acquiesced to —
Well . . . I’ll get to that.
Genevieve and I had made love before.
Normally, I don’t like that phrase; it feels like a dodge.
And besides, let us not mince words: sex is sex and love is love and they can be connected but certainly don’t have to be.
But, with Genevieve?
That was the right phrase.
She had — almost always — been tender with me, and I, in turn, with her: we had loved each other with lips and tongues and fingers — and the rare, lowkey toy; soft words and light caresses; by candlelight or in full sun.
This time was different.
“I’m going to fuck you, baby,” she’d said to me, breathy but calm, fingers light on the side of my face as I more or less stood, bound to an X-frame, inside a hoop of steel that could rotate — that could rotate me, exposing and making me accessible from every and any angle — in every possible direction, in the middle of the dungeon. “I’m going to fuck you just like Jason does. In every way.”
I’ll get to that.
But first . . . the crop.
Red today, pink tomorrow, gone the next.
Jason didn’t have a lot of mantras, but that was one: he didn’t favor marking.
Welts, bruises — most especially — scarring, none of those things were acceptable; tattoos were out of the question; piercing was “permitted” but constrained — starting with: “nothing publicly visible.”
I’ve actually been somewhat imprecise.
What they used — yes: they — was really a quirt: maybe two and a half feet long in total; whole thing made out of braided leather; likely a little lead weight in the twelve-inch handle; a rawhide lash with a forked tongue at the end.
Only six blows, in two quick sets of three each: Genevieve lashed each buttock, stung my helplessly winking anus, then summarily greased me and rammed in a medium-sized butt plug; Jason’s strikes, fast and searing, deftly ticked my nipples then, with a slight nod to Genevieve, came down just below my mons.
I don’t know how he did it — I can’t imagine that it was random or accidental — but three things happened in rapid succession: at his signal, the butt plug buzzed alive; the twin tips of the lash came down on the outer lips of my pussy with exquisite precision, just bracketing my clit; and my entire world exploded into paroxysms of pleasure, pain, panic, and gratitude.
“Good girl,” Jason repeated soothingly, over and over again, as I convulsed spastically against my bonds, as he stroked my heaving belly. “Scream it out. That’s right. Scream it out.”
They released me from the X-frame and gave me a cool bottle of water to drink; Genevieve tenderly massaged my wrists and ankles; Jason, erection in full flower, watched, smiling faintly, eyelids a little heavier than usual.
Then he sauntered over to the “play pit” near the center of the dungeon, lowered himself to the memory-foam-padded floor and languidly spread himself out on his back.
I caught the fast flicker of Genevieve’s smile.
“Almost home, baby,” she whispered, words warm and moist in my ear, nudging me gently in Jason’s direction.
Initially, I was surprised — and maybe a little disappointed?
He gestured me to straddle him, cowgirl style; I’d expected to be on my hands and knees, perhaps with my face wedged against Genevieve’s pussy, perhaps against her ass.
“Come on, My Naughty Girl,” he said hoarsely, “Daddy’s going to take you for a little ride.”
I didn’t take much in the way of urging.
Standing astride him and then lowering myself, I ensconced the red and bulbous head of his swollen cock just inside my pussy, pausing there, meeting his eyes — which twinkled a mixed Morse Code message of amusement, lust, love, and warning — before pulsing those intimate muscles in a way that made him blink and sigh with pleasure.
Hands gentle on my shoulders, he urged my face toward his and began peppering my cheeks, my neck, my forehead with feathery light kisses.
I sank down another inch and pulsed him again.
This time he growled.
His hands traveled from my shoulders, down my body, landing on my buttocks and spreading them as far apart as they would go; grip firm, he jerked his midsection up off the foam pad, pulling me down at the same time, thrusting into me fully, so hard and so fast that he rang my cervix like a bell; I felt the butt plug plucked from my ass, as Jason grunted, almost directly into my mouth.
“I forgot to tell you Little Girl,” he gritted out, as I felt Genevieve move in behind me, “Mommy’s coming along, too.”
Genevieve thrust the strap-on up my ass so fast, so fully, so completely, that I barely had time for feeling, never mind thought.
So it is possible that I am not remembering this accurately.
I came very close to yelling “Eisenhower,” so sharp was the competition between the pleasure of Jason’s cock and the initial pain of Genevieve’s.
He was hissing in my right ear, she in my left.
“Take this for Daddy, Little Girl, take this for Daddy!” his soft, urgent, and endless refrain. “Embrace your surrender.”
The fingers of one hand painfully knotted in the hair at the nape of my neck, the fingers of the other keeping an iron grip on my hip, Genevieve cooed and taunted, in a tone of mocking wonder and amazement, breaking rhythm with Jason to punctuate her mantra with thrusts that loudly clapped her hips against the cheeks of my ass: “Sodomized. By. A servant girl. Take my cock, baby! Take Mama’s cock in your tight little butt! Be Mama’s good. Nasty. Little. Girl.”
For a long moment, I was suspended in mid-air: pleasure somehow both pervasive and elusive; unsure whether what I wanted — what I needed — to do was to surrender or to abdicate.
I fleetingly considered a half-measure.
Perhaps I could invoke Ike’s vice-president.
Perhaps I could Cry Nixon!
And then what would happen? I wondered.
That thought was almost immediately washed — or blown — away, as I sobbed my fealty, my gratitude, and my love for them both, as I embraced and rejoiced in the utter surrender of my body, my mind, my heart, and my soul, as we toppled into the deep and improbable abyss of a triple-simultaneous orgasm of near nuclear proportions.
The last coherent thought I remembered: Jason’s turn next!
The Master Dominated
“Am I hurting you, Jason?”
Genevieve sounded calm and mildly curious; granted, she bit off the words, intermingling the five-beat phrase with four powerful thrusts of the double-ended dildo, anchored by nothing more than the girthy stump inside her, with which she was lustily sodomizing her employer — the silicone, bump-studded, base mashing down on her clit every time she slammed into him.
“You. Are,” he grunted in reply.
“That’s good!” she cried happily. “That’s as it should be! Not just you, your body needs to understand what pain is really like, if I am to release you into Maura’s tender care — and she, of course, into yours. Al-most done,” she exulted, though her tone was suddenly tinged with the faintest residue of sadness.
With a jerk of her head, she gestured me into position.
Jason was secured to a remarkably bendy massage table; supine, I ensconced myself in a similarly flexible recliner, legs spread, loins canted upward, flush up against the head end of the platform on which he lay prone; the combination allowed me to easily direct his face between my thighs, where — with no urging necessary from Genevieve or myself — he dutifully began to lap up and suck out what he himself had so recently deposited.
He had bathed me in his seed.
I had gratefully swallowed it down when he took my mouth; the muscles of my pussy and my ass had milked it from him greedily when he’d ravaged those channels. Albeit, of course, with no emission, Genevieve had tenderly pummeled the same spots in turn. That I’d had no fewer than six orgasms seemed to me simultaneously inevitable and impossible.
Jason’s ordeal would be over, Genevieve had curtly informed him, when both she and I climaxed, his own release having been made impossible by the devilish web of rawhide work with which she had bound, constricted, and choked off his red and swollen cock.
I wasn’t just aroused, I was inflamed — sweaty; head spinning; controlling my breathing was an ongoing effort — which surprised me a little, given that my overwhelming preference was for submission, not domination, for having Jason master me, not the other way around.
Of course, I wasn’t really mastering him.
Would that be the right thing to call her?
The Director of our own Carnival of Kink?
But this was serious — for all of us: not a game, a test; not a lark, a promise; not an end, a beginning — although, of course, it did signal the ending, or transitioning, of certain aspects of the relationships between the three of us.
I both felt and heard a long, deep groan of my own pleasure rattle me from my shoulders to my knees; I gave a quick, vicious twist to the fistfuls of Jason’s hair with which I was directing his attention, and was rewarded by a surge of wicked glee and a rush of searing pleasure; Genevieve shot me a warning glance.
“Not. Too. Fast,” she cautioned sternly. “Make. Him. Wait.”
I might have found that funny under different circumstances — and there was no question that Genevieve understood the irony of what she was saying: Waiting, making me wait, was one of Jason’s — was one of our — favorite forms of “torture.”
And he was a master at dangling my orgasm just out of reach — sometimes for hours — keeping me balanced on a pin’s head of desperate desire, artfully making sure that the meticulously built and maintained frustration tipped me neither over into pleasure nor backward and away from that possibility.
No one had ever read me so well, had understood my body better than I understood it myself.
Rather more common — before Jason — had been the men who had teased me not to the point of climax but into the abyss of disinterested irritation: fun for them, perhaps — the selfish sadists anyway (do I count Jason a generous sadist? maybe); more of a “missed train” for me when that happened.
Genevieve and I climaxed almost simultaneously and the only metaphor I can reach is electricity, with Jason in the role of either a high-tension power line or an instant-discharge battery. It was less that those moments of ecstatic pleasure went by too fast to fully process — the very concept of time came apart at that moment — and, more that, the explosive power released generated something of an amnesiac effect, that “lights out” and “event erased” by-product of surgical anesthesia.
Either Genevieve’s — wild, uncharacteristically undignified, screaming — orgasm shot a pleasure bolt, via Jason, directly to my clit or the surprisingly soft moan that her final — almost vicious — thrust elicited from him hit her, and hit me, with the sweetest charge of gracious surrender, tipping us, as one, into a warm dopamine bath of oblivion.
Excerpted from Zoë Zelig’s:
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