Crack the whip and tie me down

Have me completely gagged and bound

Make the pain go ever longer

For it makes the pleasure stronger

Spank, and bite me

Make it so I can’t see

Have your way

I’ll do as you say

Make me scream all night

I’ll do whatever you want if you bite

Make me your slave

For I love to misbehave

I have been a naughty kitty

Don’t you dare show me pity

Punish me as hard as you can

Show me that you’re the strongest man

Whip my pussy ever so hard

Make my body feel so marred

Pull my hair, tighten the chain!

I want to feel more pain!

Make me bleed, make me moan

Show me that I’m your own

Make me beg for more

Fuck me more after I’m already sore

Control me so I can not move

Show me what I want you to prove

Hold a knife to my throat

Please don’t try to sugar coat

Anything you want I’ll do

I’ll do anything for you

Make me your pet

Show me what is set

Choke me harder, bite me some

I am yours till you’re done 

 

For as long as I can remember I have been a library rat. The library has been a refuge, a sanctuary, and a gateway, as well as a place of learning. It was my father who taught me to read and to appreciate books. My father worked as a bricklayer; hard, backbreaking, physical labor. At the end of a long day, he would come home and have dinner, then sit on the couch and read. My earliest memory is of him setting me down beside him on the couch. Then he would read to me out of his large, strange books. I have an indelible image of him reading to me, and as he read, he would would point to the words with his finger. I was fascinated. The high point of my day would be when I sat on the couch by my father and he read to me. What my father read were mostly accounts of the American Civil War, books like Lee's Lieutenants, The Land They Fought For, The Blue and the Gray, and Ordeal By Fire. I would listen rapturously as he recounted the struggle of ill-clad, poorly equipped, half starving men as they struggled against long odds to defend their native land, their homes and families. I thrilled to their victories and shed tears at their defeats. Being a child, I had no real sense of time, of the past, of history. It was as if he was reading about events that were transpiring right then, but somehow far off not in time but in space, in exotic sounding places like Virginia and Tennessee and Mississippi. Of battles with names like Antietam, Shiloh, Murfreesboro, Manassas, and Chickamauga. After a time, my father would silently point to the words and have me pronounce them, teaching me to recognize the words. In this way, my father taught me to read at a very young age. And when he was away at work (I was too young to be going to school yet), I would go to the bookcase where he kept his books; and I would pull a book out and attempt to read it. I struggled with the words, and struggled to comprehend the scenes that were being described. I remember the night my father had me read to him for the first time. He would open a book and lay it upon my lap. Then I would point to the words as I read, as he had done. And he would correct me when I mispronounced a word. I remember him smiling at me after I was done. He turned to my mother and said, "You should take him to the library tomorrow and get him a library card." I didn't know what a library was, and I wondered what it was my father was suggesting to my mother. 

The next morning, after finishing her chores, my mother walked out to the car with me, helped me into the passenger seat, and then we headed down town.  After what seemed an interminable ride, we pulled up and parked in front of a large, two story, red brick building. We got out of the car and walked across the street and went into the library. I was immediately fascinated. There were shelves, row upon row of shelves, each shelf filled with books! There were more books there than I could possibly imagine. Mother led me to the check out desk and announced to the lady standing there, "Bobby wants to get a library card." The lady behind the desk smiled down at me and asked if I wanted a juvenile library card. My mother responded to the woman's inquiry by stating, "No, he needs an adult library card." As simple as that. I had a library card, my passport to learning and understanding. The library soon became my favorite place to visit. I was there once a week, like clockwork. I would return the books I have checked out the week before, and carefully go through and select another 14 or 15 new books to read. Years later, I was still a "library rat," hanging out at the library, reading, doing research, checking out books to take home and read. I had a great deal of pleasant memories connected to the library. College was especially interesting in that the university I attended had a library with 9 million volumes. Needless-to-say, I spent more time in that library than I did in class. I didn't read all of those 9 million volumes, but I sure gave it a try.

It was a Thursday evening. I was in the library, going slowly and methodically through the section on American History, 973. I was looking for a book on the archaeological research that had been done on the Little Bighorn Battlefield, the infamous site of Custer's Last Stand. I had found a book that had data from that particular archaeological project and was thumbing though it. There wasn't anyone else in that particular section of the stacks so my attention was focused on the book in hand. As young girl went by me, I looked up and gave her a smile, then went back to reading. From the corner of my eye I noticed that she went down a short ways, then disappeared around the corner of one of the shelves. I went back to my reading. The author was discussing the approach they had taken in collecting the archaeological evidence from the battlefield, their methodology. I was about to take my book and head for the checkout desk, when the young lady caught my eye again. She had reappeared and was looking idly around, as if she were searching for something. She was about 5 feet tall, or a little more, wore glasses, nicely dressed in a button up white blouse and knee length dark skirt. I guessed her age to be about 15 and she had the appearance of a student at a girl's school. She turned and began walking towards me, in a very slow and deliberate manner. She was looking right at me, or maybe it was through me, for I couldn't imagine her really taking any notice of me. I continued to watch her as she walked right up to me, not stopping until she stood right in front of me, her body all but touching mine. She stood there, her eyes focused on my face, just gazing up at me, her arms hanging limply at her sides. I gazed down on her (I'm over 6 feet tall), not knowing if I should speak to her, not knowing what I would say if I did speak to her. She appeared apprehensive, timorous, standing there, her hands playing absentmindedly with the hem of her skirt. The tip of her tongue slid nervously along her lips, wetting them. Then she said, hesitantly; "Could you help me?" Before I could reply, her hands grasped the hem of her skirt and slowly lifted it up, not stopping until her hands reached her breasts. "Please," she said in a voice that was barely a hoarse whisper;  "please touch it." My eyes slid down her body, drawn inexorably to where her genitalia was located. I quickly took note of the fact she wasn't wearing any panties, her groin bare and exposed to my view. Her small lips looked so tiny and delicate, a fine pink line of demarcation separating them. I noticed the thigh high hose she was wearing for the first time. "Please," she repeated in a bare whisper, her voice plaintive in it's appeal. Something seemed to take hold of me, something excited by this delicate wisp of a girl. Without thinking, I leaned my head towards her and spoke into her ear, "Spread your legs." She immediately shuffled her feet, her legs stretching further apart. My right arm swung forward, my hand clasping her smooth, ripe lips. Her eyes closed, and she took a swift breath, making a little rushing sound as she sucked in air. My middle finger curled, sliding along the line where her lips parted. I could feel her lips were damp and she has a musky aroma that I could almost taste. "Open your eyes," I ordered, my words coinciding with my finger being forcefully thrust up inside of her. Her eyes opened as if she had received an electric shock, her lips parting as if to speak. My finger stabbed deeper inside of her, quickly joined by a second finger. Her face contorted with what looked like pain; she bit her lower lip and moan softly. I separated her lips with my thumb and forefinger, probing until I felt her clitoris and hood. My fingers closed, squeezing them harder and harder. Her body quivered as she let out a grunt. I brought my left hand around to the small of her back, steadying her. Another moan escaped her lips as I squeezed her clitoris and hood even tighter, rubbing back and forth on the tiny nodule. Her head tilted back, her knees wobbled, then gave way and down she went. She would have ended up on the floor if it hadn't have been for my right hand between her legs and my left hand supporting her back. I gently eased her down until she was in a sitting position on the floor, her legs still splayed apart. I finally had a moment to think. Everything that had happened occurred so quickly that I was swept up in the moment. I didn't know this girl, and yet we had shared a moment of extreme passion, if that was the term to use. Something very intense and sensual had just transpired between us and it was as exciting as it was unexpected. It had all been an emotional reaction on my part, an irresistible urge. I noticed her head had tilted forward and she was opening her eyes. After a moment in which she seemed to be recovering herself, I helped her to her feet. She seemed to regain she senses and without another word nor even a look in my direction, she turned and walked out of the stacks and disappeared from my view.

 

 

When I left the library, my mind was alive with images, punctuated by conflicting emotions. I keep replaying what had occurred, feeling a rush of excitement as I recalled the events. Had it really happened? Oh, yes; this wasn't an illusion or fantasy. I lifted my right hand to my face, the pungent aroma of her body lingering, triggering an intense and vivid replaying of the event. Who was this girl, and why had she done what she had done? And why me? I was baffled. If it hadn't been for her musky aroma that clung to my fingers I would have doubted whether it had even occurred at all. It was both startling and exciting at the same time. I lay in bed that night, thinking of this girl, wondering who she was, wondering if I would ever see her again. And wondering how an encounter that couldn't have encompassed more than 5 minutes time at most could have affected me that profoundly. 

The next morning I went back to the library. I made a slow tour of the stacks on all three floors, seeing if she might be there. I then made several discrete inquiries of several of the library personnel, but one seemed to have any knowledge of her. I wanted to find her, but I was unsure how to proceed. And what if I did locate her, what then, what would I say? I began having doubts as to the wisdom of searching for this phantom young girl, a girl who's name I didn't even know. Perhaps I should simply accept what had happened as a gift from the gods and move on. I went on to work and tried to put the incident out of my mind. But thoughts of her kept intruding around the edges of my mind, creeping in at the most odd and incongruous of times. As much as I tried, I couldn't put her out of my mind. My mystery girl, as I came to call her.

 

It was lunchtime, and I was waiting for space to open up at the Silver Skillet. I was absentmindedly looking around, letting my mind drift. Idly killing time. My eyes gazed at the panorama of patrons filling the dining room, busily eating and conversing. As I turned my head, taking in the room, my heart almost stopped beating. There, seated at a table, was my mystery girl. I felt my temperature rise and my mind began to race. I had wanted so desperately to find this woman, and accident had brought us together. Again. I stood staring, my eyes fixed firmly upon this girl, memories of our encounter flooding my mind. The world could have ended at that moment and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

"Sir? Sir, you can have a table now." I almost didn't comprehend the hostess as she spoke to me. As she picked up the menu and led the way into the dining room, I followed, my eyes still observing my newly rediscovered mystery girl. I didn't want to let this opportunity pass. I had lost her once, and it wasn't going to allow it to happen to me again. I sat down at the table, unable to even think about food. I took a closer look at my mystery girl and who she was with. He had the look of a businessman, nicely dressed, and he appeared to be in his forties, and maybe early fifties. He was obviously doing most of the talking, my mystery girl listening intently to him. She appeared subdued, as if what he was saying was unpleasant or even condemnatory. I wondered if the man was her father.

"Are you ready to order, sir?" I gave the waitress a vacant look, and then recovered my composure. I glanced at the chalkboard where they posted the daily lunch specials. I saw greek salad was listed, so I ordered it. I wanted to return to observing my mystery girl. The one sided conversation continued, my mystery girl only occasionally nodding or saying a word or two. To be this close to her, and not be able to doing anything was disheartening, to say the least. I kept casting about for a way to approach and saying something, somehow make my presence known. Of course, would she even remember me? I had no idea. At present, I was simply condemned to observe. The waitress came and served my salad, so I ate as I sat and watched. I racked my brain for an idea. The waitress came and placed their check on the table. I saw them getting ready to to leave, he picking up the check, my mystery girl grabbing her purse. My mind raced feverishly, several harebrained ideas jostling for attention. They began walking towards the register, the pair silent now. I was almost panic stricken. I couldn't let her get away again. That would really be too much. As they stood awaiting their turn at the register, a man approached and began conversing with them. My mental state was approaching despair at this point. All I could do was stare. As I sat, helplessly watching, it slowly dawned on me that I knew the man who had just struck up a conversation with the pair. Where did I know him from? I thought hard, trying to remember. The way they were talking, he obviously knew them, or at least one of them. What was his name and where did I know him from? Think! Think! Then I remembered. He and I had taken a class together. That's right. What was his name? Hugh, that was it. The man was at the register now. I abandoned my salad and hurried towards the register, glancing around for my waitress. I spotted her and walked over and asked for the check. She searched for a few seconds and then handed it to me. I pressed a five dollar bill into her hands and hurried on towards the register, my mystery girl and the man disappearing out the door. I stopped for a second and thought about what I was going to say to Hugh. Then I remembered I had a notebook with me. I'd tell him she left it behind, and did he know how I could get in touch with her. I walked and stuck my hand out. 

"Hugh. Been a while. How have you been?" I could tell he was struggling to remember me. "I'm Robert, we had an Russian literature class together. I was the guy that was the Bulgakov fan." 

"Oh, yes, I remember now." He grasped my hand, shaking it, a smile creasing his face. "It has been a while."

"Hugh, that couple you were just speaking with. The girl left this notebook behind." I waved the notebook in the air. "I want to return it to her. Do you know how I can get in touch with her?" Hugh gave me an odd, patronizing look. I got the distinct impression he wasn't buying my story.

"Forget it," he said abruptly.

I gave him a quizzical look. "What do you mean, Hugh?'

"You're not her type. Believe me, she would tear your heart out."

"Her?" I asked with a slight laugh.

"Yes, her." He shook his head, then said, "She lives in a different world from you. Just take my word for it. Forget her." He looked around for a second, then pulled me over into a corner. "Do you know anything about dominance and submission?" I shook my head, waiting for him to explain further. "Her name is Danielle. She's an artist. And weird to boot. She likes men who are, " he seemed to be searching for the right word, "forceful, controlling."  He looked at me directly. "Sadistic." I stood there, hearing , not really comprehending what he was telling me. "Robert, she likes men to hurt her. Really hurt her. She gets off on it. Understand?" I was hearing his words, but I was having trouble understanding. "Robert, if you can't control and hurt her, she'll rip your heart out. Take my word on it. She's a weird bitch. And stay away from her if you know what's good for you."

What he was telling me was quite a shock, and did not in anyway coincide with my perceptions of Danielle. At least I knew her name now. Were we even talking about the same girl, I asked myself. Just didn't seem possible. Strange to say, I was even more intrigued by her now, even more interested in finding and talking to her.

"I just want to return her notebook. How do I get in touch with her, Hugh?" I  tried to make my question sound as nonchalant as possible. 

Hugh rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You know that art supply store over on Northside? Blix I think is the name." I nodded. I was vaguely aware of it. "She hangs out there a lot. I'm sure they can put you in touch with her. But don't say I didn't warn you."

I thanked Hugh, paid for my lunch and left. I wasn't at all prepared for what he had told me about Danielle. Maybe he was wrong. Or just trying to scare me off. At least I had a lead on how to get a hold of her now. That old question re-surfaced. Should I continue my effort to contact this girl?I knew the answer almost without thinking. Yes.

I had been in Blix a couple of times, when I needed some paper for a background. It was an odd place, the type of place where artists would feel comfortable. I thought I would at least go over there and make an inquiry about Danielle, see if I could locate her. It was certainly worth the short drive over to at least find out. I was still digesting the others things Hugh told me about Danielle, the dominance and submission, that she enjoyed being hurt. I didn't know what to make of the statement that she was a bitch who would tear my heart if I didn't control her. That seemed really incongruous. But then my knowledge of her came from 5 minutes, or less, of interaction, and that under the most extraordinary circumstances.

That evening I drove over to Blix. Told myself I was just going to look around. It was about 7:00 PM or a little after when I walked though the door. I went back to their paper section, which I was most familiar with, and proceed to browse, using that as my vantage point for checking out who was in the shop. There was a young man, long dark hair, mustache and scraggly beard, who appeared to be in charge. I looked through the drawers of handmade papers, slowly, methodically. Waiting for an opportunity to speak to the young man. I waited for the customers to dwindle and then walked up to the gentleman.

"Pardon me, but I have a question." He turned with a smile and asked how he could be of service. "I'm looking for a woman with frequents this shop. Young, short, glasses. Her name is Danielle. I'm trying to get in touch with her."

"Yeah, I know her. You want to hire her as an artist, or as a model?", the gentleman with the mustache asked. I didn't know she modeled. But then there really wasn't much I did know about her.

"As a model," I relied, more as a reaction than thoughtful response.

The gentleman with the mustache smiled. "Yeah, she's a better model than she is an artist. She's a real cutie. There's a guy who sets up her modeling appointments. I've got his number here. Let me get that for you." He disappeared into the back of the store for several minutes, then reappeared and walked back over to me. "Here's his number. His name is Michael. Calls himself Sir Michael," he said with a chuckle, handing me a slip of paper with a phone number on it. I thanked the mustached gentleman and left, paper clutched in my hand.

After getting home, I sat on the couch, holding that paper in my hand. Did I want to pursue this girl? I did, very much. She intrigued me. I want to know more about her, perhaps be her friend, maybe more. I just knew I had to talk to her. I dialed the number. A voice answered and I asked for Michael, Sir Michael. The voice said he wasn't in, did I want to leave a message. I left my name, number, and that I was inquiring about Danielle, the model. The voice said he would give him the message. I hung up the phone and sat there, digesting the day's events. I decided to retire to my bed with a book and just let the events of the day go. It had been a hell of a day.

I remember being awakened by my phone. I fumbled for the light switch and got it on, and then grabbed my phone and answered it.

"You want me to send Danielle over?" the voice on the phone asked. I was still half asleep and didn't quite catch the import of what he had said. I asked the voice to repeat the question.

"Do you want me to send Danielle on over to you? Simple question, dude. Yes or no?" The voice literally dripped sarcasm. I hadn't expected this type of situation. I thought, did I want to see her now, like this? Yes, even at, whatever o'clock in the morning it was, I wanted to see her. I told the voice, yes, and gave my address. The voice said she would be there in about half an hour and hung up. I decided to fix a quick cup of tea so I could wake up before she arrived. The thought jarred me. Her. Danielle. My mystery girl. Going to be here in less than half an hour. I scurried about, washing my face and hands, getting dressed, straightening up, fixing a cup of tea. I was washing a few dishes in the sink when I heard a knock at the door. I felt a chill run up my spine. She's here. I dried my hands off and walked to the door, my mind filled with anticipation. I paused for a second, took a deep breath, and opened the door. She stood on the threshold and I watched as her eyes looked around and took in the room.

"Please, come in," I said. She was dressed in black sweat plants, the word PINK running up the side of the left leg, and a hoodie, also black with a little silver trim. She looked quite different from the girl I had met in the library and had seen at the Silver Skillet. I revised my estimate as to her age; she looked like she was in her late teens, possibly 20 or 21. She had yet to look at me, being more interested in examining her surroundings.

"You the only one here?" she asked suspiciously.

"Just me," I replied. "Please, sit down." She looked round and then walked over and sat on the couch. I sat in the overstuffed armchair I used for reading.

"Do you remember me?" With that question she finally turned her attention to me, scrutinizing me closely.

"No, I don't," she said, shaking her head. "Should I?"

"We met in the library one evening, about a month ago." When I said that, a slow look of recognition crossed her face, and a little smile appeared. She let out a small laugh.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember you now." The smile broadened to a grin. "Nice to see you again." She just stared at me for a minute, her eyes twinkling. "So, where are we doing this?" she asked abruptly.

What, exactly, are we doing? I asked myself. This all happened so suddenly I had not had an opportunity to think this all the way through. As I sat there, searching for an idea, I saw her get up off the couch and walk over until she was standing right in front of me. She stood there, looking at me intently, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"You want to pick up where we left off?", she asked, looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary.  With that her hands went to the waist band of her sweats and she pulled them all the way down, leaving her completely naked from her waist to her ankles. "I liked the way you touched me in the library," she said in a low, soothing voice. I sat there, mesmerized, unsure what to do. She lifted her arms, placing her hands behind her head. Her vertical lips exuded a pungent aroma, musky and sexual, that was unbelievable alluring. The sweetest of perfumes. I brought my left hand up, and with my thumb and forefinger, slowly parted her delicate lips. I grasped her clitoris, hood, and her small, inner lips, gently rubbing them.

I sat waiting, watching the clock. I closed my eyes and thought about the library, the feelings and sensations affecting me like a powerful narcotic. I savored the memories conjured up. A quiet tapping on the door aroused me from my reverie. I stood up and walked to the door, opened it, and there she stood, like a timid fawn. She walked in without saying a word, without even looking around. She stopped and stood there, transfixed, silent, her face tense with anticipation. She was wearing her black, curly hair pulled back and and fastened with a hair tie, a large curl of hair protruding from the tie like a handle. Made her look like she was wearing a steel wool helmet. Not a good look for a woman as attractive as she was. But she tended to dress frumpily.  It was as if she deliberately wanted to obscured her beauty. One of those things about her I wanted to work on. But I had more immediate tasks at hand, so I focused on those. I knew what was needed, what she needed. 

"Straighten up," the words coming out of my mouth hard and with an edge. She lifted her head and dropped her arms down at her sides. I saw her face relax.

"You know why you're here. Time to get started." She nodded. Her right hand went to the top button on her blouse and undid it. I stood watching as her hand made its way down the row of buttons, When she had unfastened the last one, she paused.

"Take it off," I said firmly. As she started to remove her blouse I heard her mutter in her high pitched, quiet voice, "I'm sorry." Then she slipped the blouse off and I saw why. 

"I told you not to wear a bra, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," she said in a half whisper.  She reached behind with her left hand and unclasped the bra, slipping it from her shoulders. Her breasts were small, like those of a young girl, her nipples hard and erect. She unzipped her skirt and it feel noiselessly to the floor. Except for the shoes she was wearing, she was perfectly naked.

"Now the shoes." She stepped out of her shoes, first the left, then the right. I walked around her, studying her body, looking her up and down. I stopped in front of her and examined her face carefully.

"Open your mouth." She opened her mouth and I placed my right hand under her jaw, grasping it, and turned her head from one side to the other, inspecting her. I let go and then reached up and grabbed a hand full of her hair, gripping it firmly. I saw her face wince, but she made no sound. I tugged at her hair several times and let go. My hand slid down the back of her head, slightly stroking her long hair as it did so, brushed across her shoulder and came to rest cupping her left breast. With my thumb and forefinger I then took hold of her nipple, feeling its dimpled texture. I looked intently into her eyes and began to squeeze her nipple, harder and harder, rolling it slowly as I did so between my thumb and forefinger. Her face crumpled in pain, her body leaning slightly forward, her eyes closing tightly.

"Open your eyes!" She straightened up, her eyes opening wide. Releasing her nipple, I reached down and picked up a crop I had deliberately placed handily near by. I walked around behind her, the crop firmed held in my hand. I swung the crop sharply, delivering a painful stroke to her exposed butt cheek. Her body flinched from the pain, but not a sound escaped her lips. I paused for a second to admire the reddening patch of skin. I swung and struck the other butt cheek, this time harder. Her body rocked slightly from the blow. I saw her hands clinching into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"It is appropriate that this session start off with punishment. Not the way I normally start, but its how this session will begin."

She hesitated, biting her lip for a brief instant. I could tell it was all she could do to contain her ire as she slowly spit out the words, "Yes sir." Her disrespect was obvious.

I wanted to respond to her reproach, but stopped short. She was baiting me. I was in control, here, not her. And it was time she realized that. "Get dressed. I'm sending you home." And I turned to walk away.

"No….," I heard her expostulate. "No, sir, please, " her voice softening, pleading. I knew those words came hard for her. I couldn't help but smile to myself.

I turned, furrowed my brow, and fixed a hard stare upon her. "Did you want to saying something to me, slut?"

"Please, sir," I heard her begin again, she voice even softer this time. "Please, sir, I need to be punished." 

I stood watching her, not moving, just watching intently to see what she would do. She slowly looked around the room. She stopped when she saw the small display of whips I had laid out for use during the session. She walked over to the display, hesitate for an instant and then reached out and picked up the quirt. The quirt was a whip reserved for punishment. It can only be described as nasty, mean, something one wouldn't normally choose to be whipped with. The quirt can leave nasty welts. She held it in her hands as if it was something she didn't even want to touch. She turned and walked over to me, knelt at my feet, and held the quirt out in both hands, presenting it to me.

"Please, Sir, please punish me." Her voice was delicate, submissive. I reached down and took the quirt out of her hands. Then I slid my right foot forward and raised it slightly.

"You ask me the proper way."

She hesitated for a second, then she reached down and and untied the laces and removed the shoe from my foot. She rolled my sock down and pulled it off. She paused momentarily, then placed both of her hands on the floor, one on either side of my foot. She lowered her body until her head was poised just above my foot. Her lips pursed and she kissed my foot, once, then twice. At that point she stuck her tongue out and began to lick my foot, with gently affection, caressing it with her tongue. Once she had completely licked the entire upper suffice of my foot, she again kissed my foot twice and began paying homage to my foot with her tongue a second time. I waited for her to complete the task, savoring each exquisite, sweet caress of her tongue.

"Stand up." I watched as she rose back to a standing position.

"Attention." Her body became instantly erect, she hands at her side.

"Present yourself for punishment." She lifted her hands and placed them behind her head, fingers interlaced, her elbows out sharply at a 90 degree angle. Then she lifted her left foot and moved it about twelve inches away from her body, planting it firmly on the floor. She repeated the action with her right foot.

I looked her squarely in the eyes. "You're being punished for bad attitude. That is totally unacceptable in a submissive. When you come to work with me, you come with the proper attitude. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir," she responded crisply without emotion.

I walked about behind her in a slow, deliberate manner, banishing the quirt in my right hand where she was sure to see it. I stopped directly behind her. I stroked the two tails of the quirt with my left hand. The quirt made a sickening whistling sound as it flew through the air, then made contact with her exposed buttocks. She let out a small wince of pain. I struck again, a little harder, letting the quirt make still more contact with her. I heard a slight hissing sound as she sucked in air sharply through her tightly clinched lips as I struck. I took my time, carefully aiming the blows, covering her butt with red, twin-tailed tracks, the hissing sound getting louder and longer with each stroke. When I was satisfied I walked back around and faced her again. I could see tears had welled up in her eyes, but she wasn't crying yet.

"This will not happen again, will it?" With those words she lost her composure, her body trembled, the tears began to course down her checks, and small sobs escaped her lips. My heart melted as I looked into those eyes of hers. I dropped the quirt and put my arms around her, telling her it was all right. She remained stiff, her arms still at her sides, crying harder now. I guided her over to a chair and sat her down. She put her head in her hands and just cried for several minutes, tears flowing copiously. Then she looked up, wiped away tears with her hands, and let out a sigh.

"You son of a bitch!" She didn't so much pronounce the words, she spit them out, one by one. Her words were abrupt and piercing. I was surprised and momentarily taken aback and I knew I had made a mistake in giving into my emotions and letting go of control.

"Good bye, " I said quietly.

"Don't you dare send me away!" Her voice was shrill and loud, and she rose from the chair to confront me.

"I just did. Good bye." I stood up and started walking to the door.

"I'm not leaving." She stomped her foot for added emphasis.

"Fine. Stay if you like. But we're done."

"No we're not. I'll tell you when we're done." Her words dripped with venom.

I turned on a dime and tried my best to stay calm, but my blood was rapidly heating up. I was doing my best not to lose my composure. I knew I needed to do something to defuse the situation before things got out of control without provoking her further.

She marched right up to me, her hands clenching and unclenching, looking every bit as if she was about to strike me.

"How could you even THINK of treating me that way, you bastard!"

I looked her right in the eye, my voice as steady as I could make it. "Its time for you to get dressed and to leave."

Her eyes widened as I spoke the words, her hands came up above her head, and she began to pummel me, her arms flailing like mad, her hands now fists, striking me repeatedly. I used my arms to ward off her blows, listening to the words of rage that exploded out of her mouth. When she slowed down, I twisted my arms and grasped her wrists with my hands, holding them tight. She continued to struggle for a bit before she finally grew tired of the unequal contest and quieted down. We stood there, glaring at one another, her wrists locked firmly in my grasp. I forced her arms to her sides and then spun her around so she was facing away from me, her back pressed up against me, moving my hands as I did so they were firmly planted on her shoulders. I slipped my right hand from her shoulder and grabbed a hand full of her hair and twisted it in my hand until I had a secure grip on her. I let her struggle for a few seconds before I brought my left hand sharply against her bare butt, making a loud slapping noise. There was a pause during which I could hear her breathing heavily from the exertion from our brief struggle. I let go of her hair.

"I want you to get dressed. Get dressed and go home. Or where ever you want to go."

She turned to face me, an odd expression on her face. There was a pregnant pause before she answered. "I don't want to leave."

"If you can't obey, then there is no reason for you to be here. Its as simply as that."

She lowered her head and was silent for a while. I could imagine what was going through her mind, the decision she was weighing.

"I want to stay. I will obey and maintain a good attitude. Sir."

Now I had a decision to make. I did want her to stay. Why I had arranged for her to come over to begin with. But things were not working out as I had intended. How to handle this situation. I couldn't just give in, that would simply reward her for being such a bitch. She needed to pay a price, a high price, for being allowed to remain with me.

"There is only one position open for you." I wasn't going to make this easy for her.

"I'll accept any position you have for me, sir," she said quietly.

"Toilet slut. My personal urinal." I watched her face closely, looking for her reaction. I knew this would push her, push one of her limits. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if in contemplation, then opened them wide.

"I am available completely to you, Master", her voice a quiet whisper. It was the first time she had referred to me as Master. I savored a small measure of triumph.

"That's the the attitude I expect from you, slut,"  my voice quiet but firm.

She brought herself to attention, lowered her head slightly, and said, "yes, sir. Thank you, Master, for the honor of serving you."

For the first time I felt in control of this woman, this wild force of nature I felt so passionately about. I was determined to use that control. I went over and sat down on the couch, motioning as I did so for her to follow. She came up and stood in front of me, at the position of attention. I ordered her to kneel and present herself, which she did correctly. I needed a minute to think. She had such a strange, polarizing effect on my emotions, appealing to both my best and my worst impulses simultaneously. What was it about this woman, who was capable of infiltrating into the most remote and best protected part of my imagination. I wanted to hold her and kiss her tenderly and tell her how much I cared for her, how luck I loved her. And I also wanted to humiliate you, hurt her, make her suffer as she had made me suffer, watch the tears course down her cheeks. I certainly couldn't do both. One definitely precluded the other. Earlier events showed I had to take the second course. Or there would be another eruption, another appearance of that malevolent being that waited inside of her. She responded to weakness like a predator would, using it, exploiting it for her own ends. My divine bitch! I had to exert control, had to keep her in a submissive role, keep the bitch on a leash. I knew what I had to do. 

I turned my attention back to my kneeling slave. Her eyes were lowered respectfully, her butt resting on the heels of her feet, hands positioned on the upper part of her knees, palms up, hands cupped. Just as she had been trained.

"Go get dressed, Danielle", my voice calm and cool. Her faced seemed to shrivel slightly, a frown pursed her lips.

"I don't want to go home, Master," she said petulantly.

"You're not. I'm taking you out to lunch." In an instant her face brightened, her eyes lit up and a smile replaced the frown. She was up in a flash, dressing in a what seemed like a matter of seconds. I took careful note of the fact she did not put on the bra. Her attitude had totally altered from what it had been not five minutes ago. I located my sock and shoe and sat down to put them back on.

"Allow me, Master, " she said rushing over and kneeling at my feet, her face aglow with delight. She positioned the rolled sock at my toes and slowly spread its material up my foot and ankle, carefully straightening the sock and smoothing out the wrinkles when she finished. Then she picked up my shoe, and slowly slid it on my foot, then careful pulling the laces tight and tying them. She stopped for a second to admire her handiwork. She looked up at me, a smile of satisfaction in her face.

During the ride over to the restaurant, she sat quietly, legs spread, her skirt rolled up to the waist, her bare pubic region available to me if I so desired, proper car etiquette. I was content to let the car be filled with our silence, each of us with our own, separate thoughts. I chose a small, trendy spot that I had heard of but had never been to; Luna Si. The decor was spartan, but bright. The food was supposed to be good, but the portions served small. It would be the perfect stage for Danielle's performance.

I chose a table as near to the middle of the room as I could. Danielle seemed genuinely pleased at my choice of establishments. I ordered for both of us, a simple pasta, iced tea as our beverages, and a bowl of lemons on the side. Danielle laughed at my penchant for lots of lemon in my tea. She took particular delight in squeezing the lemons into my iced tea. The small portions made the actual meal of short duration. The food was good, but the portions were miniscule. We lingered over a second, and then a third glass of iced tea, Danielle happily telling me about her latest art project, describing in detail how the piece was progressing, how she hoped to complete it. There was already a client very interested in the work, she told me, and might even be sold before its completion, how she needed the money. I waited for her to finish, then told her it was time to leave, and for her to finish her iced tea. She turned the glass up to her lips and the last bit of tea disappeared from the glass.

"Now, Danielle, you're going to pay for the meal." She gave me a quizzical look, turning her head slightly, the way a dog does it when you speak to it.

"Master, I have no money. I didn't even bring my purse." 

"Its me you're paying for the meal, and it isn't with money." l placed special emphasis on the word money. A slow look of understanding crossed her face, then disappeared almost immediately.

"Pee," I ordered firmly, "right here, this instant." She looked at me for a second and then closed her eyes and lowered her head slightly, to think this over I assumed. "I'll count to ten. One… two" I heard a very slight splash, as if a glass had been spilled and the contents were hitting the floor. She sat there, eyes closed, as if she were concentrating. I leaned slightly to in her direction, glancing at the floor. Urine was flowing from the seat of her chair unto the floor, puddling up as it fell. I sat and watched as the flow continued. She had drank a great deal of liquid, obviously more than I had realized. After about 50 seconds, maybe a minute, it stopped. I looked round the room. Conversation had ceased and every eye was on Danielle and her puddle. She opened her eyes, looked at me in pleading manner and said, "I'm ready to go now, sir."

I reached in my pocket, pulled out my car keys and handed them to her. "Go wait in the car." After she walked out the door, I found our waiter, apologized and explain the young lady had a bladder problem, settled the bill, a nice tip, and left an extra 20 dollars for good measure. I went out and sat in the car for a minute before Danielle handed me the keys. The silence was palpable. She sat there, impassive, her head turned, staring out the window.

"I'm very pleased," I told her, sounding as Dom like as I could; "and you did it under very adverse conditions, too. You please me greatly." I knew I hadn't convinced her, wasn't sure I was convinced myself. In my desire to maintain control over her, I had overplayed my hand. Only thing to do was regain control, or at least attempt to regain control. I decided to play an ace.

I turned and fixed my gaze upon her. "Car etiquette is in force, " I said in the most authoritative voice I could muster. Her head turned, her eyes glaring at me. Without a word she lifted slightly, slid her skirt out from under her butt and thighs, then rolled the hem up to her belly. She then spread her legs, placed her hands on her knees, palms up, and faced forward. At least she was obeying, and that in itself was a good sign. At least I hadn't lost total control. Now to continue on with my agenda. I knew that sensual pain was one of the keys to her sexual pleasure, her sensuality. That was the approach I was determined to pursue.

"Pull your lips all the way open, now," I ordered sharply. She immediately moved her hands to her pubic mound, placed an index finger on each of her bare lips, and spread them wide. She glanced down at herself, made a small adjustment of her fingers, then returned to looking straight ahead. I flattened my right hand, pulled my fingers in firmly, reached over and positioned my hand about 8 inches from her exposed pink, then gave her a sharp spank. She jumped slightly and let out a short cry of pain. I brought my hand down again, and then again. I gave her a total of fifteen hard, sharp spanks in quick succession. I lowered my hand down until it was in contact with her open lips, curled my middle finger around, and inserted it into her rapidly moistening vagina. I was rough, sliding my finger in and out quickly. I saw her eyes close, her head tilt back slightly. She was responding just the way I hoped her would. I pulled my finger out, flattened my hand again, and gave her fifteen more sharp, hard spanks, harder than the first, then, without pausing, went back to finger fucking her hard. Her body was jerking spasmodically in rhythm with my finger thrusts, her head now resting on the back of the seat. I kept thrusting further into her, harder and harder. Her lips started moving, trying to form words. I knew what she wanted to say, but I wasn't ready for the question. Again I pulled my finger out. "Wider," I barked. She pulled herself wide open again, and this time she pulled her hood back, exposing her bare clit. "You are such a good little whore," I told her with exaggerated praise. I brought my hand down sharply again on that rapidly redding area between her legs, her mouth opening wider with each spank. With the last slap of my hand, my finger again disappeared inside of her, my thumb pressed against her exposed clit. "You know how to be a good whore, I know you do. You're showing me, right now. I expect no less from you, slut. No less." 

"Yes, sir," she said hoarsely, her breathing labored and loud. 

"Open you mouth," I hissed into her ear. Her mouth opened eagerly, her tongue extending slightly. I withdrew my finger from her vagina and quickly inserted it into her waiting mouth. "Suck it!" I ordered. Her mouth closed hungrily, sucking at my finger like a young calf at it's mother's teat. I withdrew my finger, slowly, and lowered it back down to her wet vagina. As I did so, she lifted herself up in the seat, making the entrance to her vagina more accessible. She was all but purring with contentment. As I re-inserted my finger, I heard her let out her first moan of pleasure.

"Master, please, may I cum? Please, sir." Her voice was tortured, her plea urgent, her breathing heavy and rasping.

"No, you may not! I have other plans for you, my slut." To add emphasis to my denying her, I quickly pulled my finger from its warm, wet refuge. I held it under her nose, allowing her to inhale her own erotic bouquet. She opened her mouth expectantly,  without any direction from me. I was filled with ardor, satisfaction. I moved the tip of my finger to her upper lip, making just enough contact so she knew it was there. Her tongue gently reached out and began caressing my finger. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the subtle pleasure this brought me, savoring my triumph over this wild child. The feeling of control was truly delicious.

On the drive back to my home, Danielle was content to sit there, quietly lost in her own thoughts. Gave me time to consider something I had been avoiding. What was it, exactly, that I wanted from this woman? My original idea of simply getting to know her, of being with her, was gone. Now what was my goal? This woman aroused me in ways I wouldn't have thought possibly just a short time before. She excited parts of my mind that I didn't even know existed, fueled desires that came from deep down inside of me, from the dark recesses of my mind. I knew I needed to have control over her, complete control, that much was obviously. But what else? I knew there was more. Dark longings, primal hungers welling up from down deep inside of me. That first encounter at the library has started a chain reaction that was still continuing, still progressing, still growing. I didn't want to just control this woman, I wanted to possess her, make her mine, use her in any way that I desired. I wanted to do vile things to her, and have her thank me and ask for more. I sat up with a start. Was this me thinking these thoughts, the quiet scholar? Yes. And not only was I thinking them, I was actually activated by them, invigorated.

As I stopped the car in the driveway, I couldn't help but wonder how Danielle would react to my thoughts and plans for her. At that moment in time, what I was most interested in was just how far I could push her. I wanted to find out, see just how far I could go with her. In the mood she was currently in, this seemed the perfect time. I unlocked the door and we went inside. Danielle immediately started to undress but I instructed her to wait.

"Danielle," I said as I placed my hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes, "do you trust me? I mean really trust me?" She gave a strange quizzical look, lowered her eyes for a few seconds, then looked me with a look that can only be described as devoted.

"Yes, Master, I trust you."

"Follow me," I said quietly, took my hands from her shoulders, turned, and began walking the short distance to my bedroom, Danielle following obediently three paces behind, walking as silently as a phantom's shadow.

As we entered my bedroom, I indicated to Danielle where I wanted her to stand. I then went to a chest where I keep my  "tools", opened it, and took out a large survival knife in a sheath. I walked back over to Danielle, held the knife up, unsnapped the strap holding the knife in the sheath, and slowly withdrew it from its protective leather case. I could see that Danielle's eyes were following my every move, her eyes glued to the large, intimidating blade. Holding the blade on my right hand, I threw the sheath over onto the bed.

"Spread you legs, wide!" I commanded. Danielle stepped left and then right, her legs now forming a 90 degree angle. I reached around and took hold of a hand full of her hair, grasping it tightly. I moved my head until my lips were just barely touching her ear, then traced the contours of her ear with my tongue as delicately as I could, then kissed her ear. "Don't move, don't even twitch," I whispered. I brought the point of the knife up and began tracing patterns on her blouse, her eyes following every move. Then I slid the knife blade into the gap between the buttons on her blouse, so that the tip just grazed her skin. With a sudden jerk of my hand, I popped off one of the buttons. I now had a larger opening to work with, and I immediately took advantage of the situation. I gripped her hair tighter, exerting more control over her. I pressed the tip of the blade against Danielle's left nipple, watching as she shivered slightly then closed her eyes. I knew instinctively that I was eliciting a strong response from her, thought I wasn't entire sure which response it was, fear or excitement, or a combination of the two. Whichever it was, I was enjoying myself immensely. I pressed the point of the blade a little harder into her flesh and her trembling increased. I withdrew the knife slightly, then brought it up and with another quick movement of my hand the top button on her blouse popped off and hit the floor. There was a pregnant silent in the room. I listened to Danielle's labored breathing, her eyes closed tightly. I used the tip of the knife to open the part of her blouse that had been held closed by the now missing buttons. I watched her breasts rhythmically rising and falling with each breath she took. This is what I longed for, what I needed to feel. That I had my wild child under control, even if that control was only of short duration. I slid the knife along her breast until the tip of the blade was resting on her erect nipple. I then pulled the blade outward, cause the blouse to bulge, then for the tip of the knife to pierce the fabric. With a firm pull, the fabric parted and her left breast was fully exposed. I pulled on her hair, causing her head to tilt back, then I leaned in and kissed her exposed nipple. I looked at Danielle, seeing her eyes still closed tightly, a pained expression on her face. I took the knife and used it to pull her blouse free from where it has been tucked into her skirt. I slid the knife under her blouse and up to the top of remaining buttons. With one slow, measured tug of the knife, all the buttons were scattered on the floor and her blouse parted. I took the knife and lowered it until it was even with the hem of her skirt. After pausing for a moment, I brought the knife up under her skirt until it just grazed her tiny vertical lips. I felt her body shiver. I used the tip of the blade to delicately part her small lips, pressing the cold metal against her clit and hood. I could feel every muscle in her body tense.