The Playboy's Proposition (10 page)

I ended the little speech by lowering my head again and
keeping my gaze on the floor.

Michael said, “Meh. Not bad. You didn’t get the words
exactly right, but the sentiment is there. It’ll do.”

I blew out a sigh of relief.

He asked, “Did you do your homework?”

I answered, “Yes, Master.”

“What did you imagine me doing to that sweet little asshole
of yours?”

I said, “I imagined you touching it.”

“Good. What else? What did I stick inside you?”

“Umm, nothing. You just touched it.”

He snorted. “Pathetic. You could have bought yourself some
goodwill there, even if you had said that I fucked your ass with something
tiny, like a pencil. I planned to lighten your punishment as a reward. What a
pity. For you.”

Well, that sucked, I thought, and unfair to boot, but I
wasn’t a stupid rookie anymore to risk actually saying it out loud.

He said, “Lift your head, but keep your eyes down.”

I did, and he raised the riding crop. I flinched when he
brought it up to my mouth, and traced around the edges of my lips with the floppy
end. Then he dropped the crop lower and traced both of my nipples.

Michael said, “Pretty. I like the color. All right then, my
sweet. I’m giving you a safe word for tonight. You know what a safe word is.”

I replied that I did.

He said. “The word is yellow. Use it only if the situation
is dire. If you say yellow, I’ll stop what I’m doing immediately and we’ll talk
and figure out what went wrong. Remember, only the word yellow will make me
stop. You can yell ‘stop’ or ‘please god no’ or whatever is moving you at the
time, but I won’t quit what I’m doing unless you say the word ‘yellow.’ Do you
understand?”

 “Yes, Master,” I said, my voice sounding weak and
reedy in my ears.

He continued, “Enough of the preliminaries. I formally
accept your admission of guilt and your wish to be punished for your
transgressions. I expect you to take what I give you with grace and humility.
Now stand up, please.”

I rose stiffly, but gratefully, from the hard floor. He told
me to hold out my hands then reached over to a nearby shelf and pulled down a
chrome D-clamp. He attached it to the rings on my wrist bands, effectively
cuffing my hands together.

Next, he pulled a chain, around two feet in length, from the
shelf and tossed it on the floor. There were clips on the ends of the chain,
and Michael instructed me to bend over and attach the chain to my ankle cuffs.

When I was finished, he said, “I suggest you do your best to
keep up.”

And with that, he tangled his fingers in the hair at the
base of my head and grabbed tight, then he turned and marched me off down the
hall.

I scrambled to keep up, the hobbling chain making it
difficult to match Michael’s long strides. I shuffled my feet rapidly, trying
to keep up with the propelling force of Michael’s hand forcing me forward. I thought
I must look like a running penguin, but I didn’t have any time to dwell on that
thought, what with trying not to fall flat on my face.

I didn’t register anything we passed because I had to keep
my eyes on my feet, to prevent my tripping over the chain, or taking too long a
step and wiping out on the marble floor. Michael maintained his crazy pace, at
least it was crazy in my fettered opinion.

A few times he flicked at my belly and legs with the tip of
his crop, barking at me to quit lagging behind. When I tried to cover my belly
with my hands, he laughed and laid a stinging swat on my breast. After that, I
didn’t try to cover my belly again.

Finally the mad hobble was over and we entered a large room
where Michael drove me the last scrambling steps into the center of the room
and released his hold on my hair.

The room was softly lit by dozens of recessed lights in the
ceiling. The walls and floors were of a dark, nearly black wood. There were
free-standing racks, and sawhorse-like apparatus, and lots of shelves and
rolling carts, hooks in the ceilings, posts on the floor, and rings bolted all
over the place, and ... it was medieval.

“Welcome to my playroom,” he said, his voice all chipper, a
tone so out of place that it served to accentuate the dark purpose of the room
rather than to lighten it.

I shivered. The place smelled of leather and latex and wood,
but those scents were layered beneath the heavy incense aroma that permeated
the rest of the apartment, and was strongest in this room.

I stared at the pegboard on one of the walls. It was covered
with the tools of Michael’s trade. Whips, floggers, paddles, crops and rods of
different sizes, shapes and colors hung neatly in rows alongside cuffs and
chains and other items that I didn’t recognize.

Scores of wooden boxes rested on rows and rows of shelves. I
didn’t much want to imagine what might be hiding in those.

Michael had been moving around me while I surveyed the room.
He lowered some thick chains that hung from bolts in the ceiling. They swung
beside me, a few feet away.

Michael told me to stand still then leaned down and
unclipped the chain from my ankles. He had me spread my legs about four feet
apart, then clipped my ankle cuffs into other heavy chains that were attached
to rings bolted into the floor.

I tested my bonds. I was held tight. While I could spread my
legs wider, I couldn’t bring them closer together past a certain point.

Next he unclipped my wrists and clipped the cuffs into the
chains hanging from the ceiling. My arms were spread wide, my hands above the
height of my head and stretched out to the sides. I could shake my arms a
little, but there wasn’t much play in the chains.

I stood there spread-eagled and helpless, my body the shape
of a big X. There would be no way to escape these chains, no matter how hard I
tried.

Michael stepped around me, running his hand over my belly,
thighs, back and breasts. My skin trembled under his touch. He tweaked my
nipples a few times, and squeezed my ass.

He said, “Almost there, my sweet.”

He walked over to a shelf and pulled out one of the boxes.
He removed what looked like a black leather bag then returned to stand in front
of me.

He dangled the bag before me. I couldn’t imagine why he was
taunting me with it. Then I saw the holes. Were those holes, or outlined seams?
And there were laces running down one side. In fact, there were all sorts of
things on the outside of the bag. What were they? Wait. That wasn’t a bag at
all.

It was a hood. A hood? Oh hell no.

Michael grinned an evil smile and said, “Close your eyes and
hold still,” and with that, he shoved the hood over my head. My world went
dark.

He fiddled with the hood, adjusting it properly over my nose
so the nostril holes hit in the right spots and I could breathe easily. It
didn’t cover my entire head, just most of it; it covered most of my cheeks, but
ended right above my upper lip, leaving my mouth and chin uncovered just enough
to allow my jaw free range of movement.

A thick band ran around my neck, and rejoined the hood
halfway back, helping to secure the apparatus in place. After Michael had the
hood adjusted to his liking, he began tightening the thing from behind, using
the laces I had seen, laces that ran all the way down the back of my head and
down my neck.

I tried not to panic while he pulled the laces tighter. When
he was finished, it was a snug fit around my head and face. I hated it, hated
the tightness of it, especially around my throat. At least my jaw and mouth
were free.

I despised the hood. Did not think I could despise it more.
But I was wrong about that.

Michael said, “It looks perfect on you, Sweet.”

I felt movement on both sides of the hood. There was a
scratchy sound of something sliding into place, then a click. My world abruptly
became an even smaller place. He had somehow muted my hearing. All I heard was
a hissing sound. What was this thing?

There was a slight click, and I could hear again, though not
as well as I could before he fiddled with the thing.

Michael’s voice sounded slightly muffled, but was understandable.
He said, “It’s equipped with noise cancelling headphones. They’re remarkably
thin, barely changing the shape of the hood. They work best when you’re playing
music.”

He continued, “Plus, it’s wireless, so no cords to worry
about. With the push of a button on my remote control, I can fill your head
with the music of my choosing. Clever, isn’t it? Found it in Japan and couldn’t
resist it.”

Suddenly, my world was filled with music, a wicked-sounding
music underscored by loud thudding bass notes. It made me think of monks
chanting, in a way, if the monks were evil. It was the sort of thing you heard
in horror movies when a monster is stalking his victims.

The music stopped and Michael asked, “Can you hear me now?”

I furiously thought that this was no time for flippant cell
phone jokes.

He said, “A friend of mine mixed these tracks. He named them
‘Terror Tunes.’ Amusing, no?”

I didn’t appreciate his chuckle. I wasn’t appreciating much
of anything at the moment. I was spread out naked and helpless, had been blinded
and then deafened with “Terror Tunes,” and the damnable hood was already making
my head hot. I could feel sweat forming on my scalp and face. Soon, it would be
miserable under there. I prayed he wouldn’t make me wear it for long.

Michael said, “Because you’re new to this, Sweet, I can’t be
as hard on your tender skin as I could be with a more experienced sub. But I
can’t let you get away with less than your due for the serious errors you made
the other night, so I’ve put you in this hood.”

He continued, “It will make everything seem worse than it
is. You won’t be able to see or hear where the next blow is coming from. I
think you’ll be surprised what a difference that makes.”

I gulped hard, my throat having gone dry with the word
“blow.”

He ran a finger (or a thumb, I couldn’t tell which), over my
lips, and said, “I’ve left your mouth free, a bit of a boon for you.
Understand, though, that this can be subject to immediate change.”

He trailed his hand down my cheek. “If you displease me and
don’t accept your punishment with the grace that becomes a sub of mine, then
I’ll up the discomfort ante by completing the bottom half of this hood. It’s a
nifty detachable piece that I can easily pop into place.”

He traced my jawline. “Once it’s secured to the rest of the
hood, the entirety of your head will be encased, mouth, chin, jaw and all.
You’ll have to breathe mostly through your nose, because your mouth will be
filled with a big knob of plastic called a penis gag. It’s a nasty piece of
work, Sweet.”

He continued, “If you think the hood is uncomfortable now,
imagine how much worse it can get if you displease me and I’m forced to close
you in entirely. Do you understand?”

Oh, God, did I understand. This was worse than anything I
had imagined. To be shut off away like this, to not be able to see or hear him.
To be threatened with a ... ugh ... penis gag. It was dehumanizing, and
isolating. I realized my knees were trembling. When did that start?

I managed to squeak out, “Yes, Master.”

Then Michael began touching me, stroking me all over. He
squeezed my breasts and ass, ran his fingers through my pussy and up my ass
crack, grazed the undersides of my arms and down the length of my thighs.
Blinded as I was, anticipation increased the sensations.

He said, “We’re going to begin in a moment. I’ll turn on the
music then I’ll begin the punishment for your least offense, removing the Ben
Wa balls without permission. When it’s over, I’ll turn off the music and you’ll
be given a short break. Do you understand?”

I said I did.

Music filled my ears. My throat and mouth were completely
dry. And my first punishment had yet to actually begin. How would I bear this?

Every nerve in my body was on alert. What would he do to me?
When would he do it? I strained to hear past the music, desperately wanting a
hint of what might be happening around me. I thought I heard a thump, and a
scrape, maybe. But it could have been part of the music.

What was he doing? How long would this take? Nothing to do
but wait.

I nearly jerked out of my skin when I felt something touch
the hood. I realized it was just Michael’s hand. He was fiddling with something
again. What that might be, I had no idea. He pressed something hard against the
back of my neck. I didn’t know what it was, only that it stayed were he placed
it.

Then I had a thought. What if it was part of the detachable
piece he had threatened me with? Oh no. That’s what it was. He was so sure I
would fail he was already getting the thing in place for when he’d need it. I
gritted my teeth. I would not fail. I would not fail.

He was soon done with whatever he had been doing, and I was
left to wait again. This blind and deaf (deaf from the outside world, anyway)
waiting was terrible.

I thought I heard a few more faint sounds that seemed far in
the distance. Then I flinched when I felt Michael’s hand cup one of my
buttocks. He squeezed, rubbed and poked at my flesh.

Then ... smack! He struck my ass cheek with his hand, hard.
Very hard. I cried out, louder really than the pain warranted because of the surprise
of the attack. I jerked, pulling at the chains restraining my arms, a pointless
gesture.

And so it had begun, I thought.

He spanked me again, then again. I tried to control my
cries, knowing things would get much worse than this spanking, and I had best
get myself in hand, but I had limited success. The isolation of the hood made
everything harder, as Michael had said it would.

He rubbed my ass, then switched to the other cheek. I now
knew he was preparing it to be smacked, so I wasn’t as violent in my reaction
when the swat finally landed. He hit me two more times, massaged my heated skin
very briefly, then stopped.