Reunion - #freestory #BDSM #Submission

In my post two weeks ago, I talked about the difficulty I sometimes have distinguishing between actual experiences and the stories they have inspired. Here’s a bit from the story Reunion that I mentioned in that post. It’s based quite closely on real events. I could swear my Master has actually seen me in my corset, but he claims that I’m mistaken.

In any case, re-reading this never fails to get me wet ... a full twenty years after that rendezvous.

The tale was originally published in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s anthology Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories. You can read the entire story for free on my website. In case you’ve never visited, I have dozens of free stories available, all neatly classified. 

 

This hotel is more than a hundred years old. I selected it deliberately, hoping that it might offer some Victorian style, but the room is fairly ordinary – no four-poster bed, no fireplace, no curtain fastenings that might serve double duty as attachment points for bonds.

There is, however, a fine wing-back chair next to the window, with a footstool. My master tosses his backpack in the corner and settles himself into the chair. He grins at me, and butterflies swoop through my stomach. “Well, Sarah. Alone at last.”

I stand on the other side of the room, the bed between us, clutching my bag. What I really want to do is to rush over and kneel at his feet. I can’t move, though. It seems as though I’m in a dream, rooted to the spot. Hardly surprising. I’ve dreamed about this meeting for months.

How shall we start, then? Should I strip? The last time we were in a hotel room together, years ago, he bound me to the desk chair with my stockings. The time before, he unscrewed the post from the fake colonial bed and fucked me with it until my screams brought the hotel management knocking on the door. But that was in another life, before I misread my master’s heart and chose a different partner.

“So, what do you have in your bag?” he asks finally, after watching me squirm for long moments.

“I have the corset.” I’d purchased it for myself, thinking to please him, knowing that there was no way he would ever buy me one.

“Good. And the other things that I told you to bring?”

“I have the ruler, the rope, the alligator clips, and the timer.” I remove the items one by one, arraying them on the bed for his inspection. Without announcing it, I take out a package of condoms and place it on the bedside table. His eyebrows arch in a silent question, but he just nods.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find a rug beater, or the switches. It’s too late in the year; the trees are too brittle. Anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to carry them...”

“No excuses!” He sounds stern but I can see a smile twitching at the corner of his full lips. “I’m sure that you know better than to disobey me. We’ll see about your punishment later.”

He settles back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Right now, I want to see you in your corset.”

I carefully extract the gorgeous black satin garment from its tissue paper wrapping. My master looks relaxed, but I know he’s not missing any detail as I pull my jersey over my head and attack the buttons at my waist. Of course I’m not wearing a bra. My nipples feel hot, as if illuminated by a spotlight. They seem to scream “look at me, see how stiff I am”.

My rayon skirt pools around my ankles and then I’m naked in front of him for the first time in nearly two decades. His eyes widen but he doesn’t say a word.

“Why don’t you close your eyes while I put it on? It’s rather an awkward process. And I want you to get the full effect.”

“You can’t hide anything from me, Sarah,” he says, but still, he turns to look out the window while I struggle with the clasps and laces.

My fingers don’t work at all, I’m so nervous. I know he’s getting impatient, yet I can’t seem to reach the last hooks. I suck in my stomach, worried that I’ve gained weight and I won’t be able to fasten the thing, but finally, I manage.

The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don’t burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.

“Okay – I’m ready.”

My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. “Very nice. Come over here.”

Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.

“Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let’s see more of your tits and your ass.”

His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I’m terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn’t touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.

I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I’m close enough to him. I know he can smell it to. I don’t dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I’m wearing the collar he once promised me.

I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown three thousand miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.

“Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me.

His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I’ll die if he doesn’t do it soon. 

**** 

Read the rest of the story here!

Imaginary Line - #falsememory #corset #deepfakes

By Lisabet Sarai

Our Grip topic for March is “Fact versus Fiction”. You might think we authors would be experts on this dichotomy. After all, each of our books leads off with the requisite boilerplate:

“This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.”

Of course, this is utter nonsense. Every one of us draws on personal experience in penning our stories: places we’ve lived or traveled, people we’ve known, events in which we’ve been involved. Even when we write scifi, historical or paranormal tales, we can’t help weaving in threads from our own lives.

Try untangling the fact from the fiction, though, and you’ll quickly find yourself enmeshed in a web of uncertainty and contradiction. How much do you have to distort a happening from your past before you can label it fictional? If I use a former lover as the inspiration for my hero, can I honestly claim the character is a figment of my imagination? And places! Anyone who’s read my work knows that setting plays a major role in almost every one of my stories. In my books, I return again and again to locations that have personal significance. But like the recurring places in my dreams, these locations shift and mutate as I explore them. Against the familiar background of Boston or New York, Bangkok or San Francisco, I paint streets that don’t exist, establishments borrowed from other locales, venues constructed entirely out of thought that nevertheless fit neatly into the so-called real environment. Like Pokemon characters, the alterations I superimpose on my settings become part of the landscape.

I can’t tell you exactly what’s fiction. I can’t tease out the so-called facts, either. My life memories are hopelessly muddled together with my stories. Indeed, in some cases I “remember” scenes I’ve written more vividly than circumstances that really occurred. For instance, my erotic thriller Exposure includes a dramatic sequence in which the heroine Stella is trapped in the basement of her old Pittsburgh row house. The villain sets the paint-soaked rags and scrap wood ablaze, hoping she’ll be incinerated and his guilt won’t be exposed.

I’ve never been in a fire, or been subjected to anything remotely like this. Still, I seem to remember that horrific experience — the ferocious heat, the choking smoke, the smell of chemicals and charred wood, the way I gasped as the fire sucked the oxygen from the air, the stinging pain when the flames singed my flesh, the desperate push to climb to the tiny window and squeeze through, the utter exhaustion and despair after, as my home crumbled to ash...

I recently received a vivid reminder of how fact and fiction interpenetrate, how one morphs into the other until they’re indistinguishable. My story Reunion is possibly my most autobiographical work. It’s based on an actual rendezvous with my long-time master G, many years ago in a Boston hotel. In preparation for that encounter, I ordered a lovely black satin corset from Frederick’s of Hollywood. I intended to model it for G, as he’d often suggested he would enjoy seeing me so attired.

I still have that corset. I remember donning it in that hotel room, strutting around wearing nothing else, basking in G’s admiration and lust. That’s all chronicled in my story.

However, in an email conversation last month, G told me he’d never seen me wear the corset. I protested that he had to be wrong. I recalled the experience in luscious, arousing detail. In his typical know-it-all Dom fashion, he unearthed an old email from me, sent a day or two before our meeting, in which I told him with regret that the garment was not likely to arrive in time.

What are the facts? Is he right? Am I? Could there be two alternate realities, one in which we fulfilled that mutual fantasy, one in which we did not? Where is the line between what really occurred and what I imagined?

The more I think about the question, the more convinced I am that fact and fiction truly cannot be separated. After all, everything we think we know is mediated by perception and interpretation. As we move through our daily lives, we’re constantly making up stories to explain the world around us. The radically different world views espoused by people of different religions, races, and political persuasions make it clear that “facts” are an illusion.

Okay, so maybe culture and society are based on imagination, on trying to make sense of things and fitting them into our belief systems. But what about science? Surely the evidence from scientific research has a more solid claim to being factual and “real”.

Do I need to remind you about the climate change controversy? Or to look at a less divisive issue, consider the solar system. When I was in school, there were nine planets. That was a well-known fact. Now astronomers have discovered a whole range of additional objects orbiting around the sun, beyond Pluto. Scientific knowledge depends on what can be measured. As new instrumentation and new monitoring techniques are developed, scientific “facts” change. In addition, social and cultural forces strongly influence the very questions science thinks it’s worthwhile to ask.

What about documentary evidence? Easy to forge, and getting easier all the time. Are you aware of DeepFake videos? Before long, anyone will be able to claim you said or did something you’d never actually consider, and to back that up with filmed proof. Historical so-called facts can be manipulated with equal if not greater ease.

You might find this train of argument alarming. It’s comforting to believe in the existence of some sort of external reality. When I start deconstructing experience, though, I conclude that, at best, fact and fiction are regions on a continuum of certainty. Perhaps it is a waste of time and energy to try drawing a clear line between them.

As for me, I’d rather devote that energy to creating new stories.