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                                 Bondage/bedtim06
                                   Alan Michaels
                                The Mistress's Secret
                                  A Writer's Choice Bedtime Story
                  	Except for its inconspicuous lock, the door at the end of the 
                   short hallway of Miranda's middle-class home looked perfectly 
                                             ordinary.
                   	But the windowless room beyond the locked door was a sexual 
                Never-Never Land, a fantastic reflection in a kinky Looking Glass. 
                While Miranda watched, amused, the key dangling from her finger, I 
                  took one step inside, then another -- and stopped, staring. My 
                 heart was racing, my eyes wide. I had never seen anything like it 
                                              before.
                    	Two walls were mirrored, from the tiled floor to the black-
                      painted ceiling. An incredible array of whips, , gags, 
                 and harnesses hung from the peg strips which circled the room at 
                   waist height. Pushed into the near corner was a heavy padded 
                sawhorse; the center of the room was dominated by a wooden X-frame 
                 solid as an oak and seven feet tall. Both the horse and the frame 
                  were dotted with steel eyebolts, some of which sported dangling 
                chains or cuffs. All of it looked well used. None of it, as far as 
                                    I could tell, was for show.
                     	And in the opposite corner, facing it all like a queen's 
                     throne, was a fan-backed rattan chair with thick ruby-red 
                            cushions. A black   rested across the seat.
                     	It was a real dungeon, a dominant/submissive playground, 
                  tucked into a back room in a perfectly ordinary home. And this 
                  surprising wonderland belonged to my friend Miranda -- a woman 
                   whose dress and appearance wouldn't raise an eyebrow at a PTL 
                                             meeting. 
                  	Whose usual dress and appearance, anyway. I turned back toward 
                Miranda, my mouth suddenly dry. "This is incredible," I said. What 
                 my eyes were saying, I didn't know. But I was looking at her very 
                   differently. My mind flashed on a picture of Miranda in black 
                 corset on the fan-back chair, contemplating me bound naked on the 
                          X-frame. My cock began to swell at the thought.
                    	"You approve, then?" she asked archly, her eyes sparkling.
                   	There was a tension between us at that moment of a kind that 
                 had never surfaced before. She was at ease, self-amusedly waiting 
                 to see what I would do. I was uncomfortable, and tempted to hide 
                 behind a wisecrack. But for some reason I just swallowed, nodded, 
                                     and said quietly, "Yeah."
                    	Her next question cut to the heart of the tension. "Do you 
                                          want to try it?"
                         	I couldn't look away from her. "Yes. I -- I do."
                  	She looked at me questioningly, as though I had said something 
                                               wrong.
                    	"Yes, Mistress," I amended, suddenly realizing why she was 
                                              waiting.
                  	She smiled then, a pleased smile. "Then go back to the living 
                   room, slave Alan, and take off all your clothes. Kneel in the 
                middle of the floor, and wait there until I come for you. I have a 
                                     few things to get ready." 
                                                		#
                   	I undressed, heart pounding, still not quite believing what 
                                           was happening.
                   	What was I getting into? How much could I trust her? Though 
                I'd known Miranda for more than two years, we lived in cities five 
                   hundred miles apart. We had met at an education conference in 
                  Raleigh -- she was a testing specialist at a private college, I 
                   was a placement counselor at a large university. We ended up 
                 spending several hours together that weekend, in lecture sessions 
                and on a mass expedition for Chinese food. She smoothly and firmly 
                   squelched my attempts to flirt with her, but even so, I had a 
                                   wonderful time in her company.
                   	When we ran into each other at another conference later that 
                 year, it was like finding a friend in a mob of strangers. We had 
                 dinner together again (only five at the table this time) and sat 
                  up late in the hotel bar on the last night, telling stories and 
                  laughing. I wrote her a few letters over the next year, and she 
                 called me a few times. But the tone was always friends-keeping-in-
                 touch. There was no hint or thought of romance. Miranda seemed to 
                 be on a different wavelength, as though she didn't play that game 
                 at all. I confess I couldn't quite figure her out, even though I 
                                     enjoyed her a great deal.
                  	Then came the week-long counseling workshop in her home city, 
                   my wonder-if-we-could-get-together call, her invitation to a 
                casual dinner at her house, and the free-ranging conversation that 
                                      kept coming back to sex.
                  	Somehow I had found myself telling her more about my past and 
                  my preferences than most of my lovers ever knew, and much more 
                  than Miranda was telling me. Eventually I got to my interest in 
                  what I knowingly called "D," and how it was a shame that so few 
                  women seemed to understand about the exchange of power and how 
                   much fun it could be. I was pretending a familiarity I didn't 
                  have, and Miranda must have known it, but she let me blather on 
                   for a time before calling my bluff by taking me down the hall.
                   	And now here I was, kneeling naked in her living room with a 
                  throbbing hard-on, staring my fantasy in the face. I knew what 
                most of the toys hanging in the dungeon were for. But my knowledge 
                 was almost entirely academic, drawn from books like Exit to Eden 
                 and a sampling of fem-dom porn. The games I'd played with lovers 
                 past had been strictly amateur. Miranda was the real article, and 
                              that scared me as much as it excited me.
                     	Maybe it scared me because it excited me. Or excited me 
                  because it scared me. I didn't know how to tell the difference.
                                                		#
                      	Minutes dragged past, and my knees and ankles began to 
                  complain about the position I had assumed. Then I heard a door 
                open, and the click of heels in the hallway. I turned to look, and 
                       found my hostess transformed into a stunning Mistress.
                    	Her mane of wavy auburn hair was set off now by a studded 
                    black choker. Her ample breasts seemed barely confined in a 
                leather halter laced only to the lower curves of her cleavage. She 
                     wore fingerless elbow-length gloves and gleaming studded 
                   wristlets. In her right hand was the  , in the left a collar. 
                 Her hips were sheathed in a tight leather wrap-skirt which bared 
                   her beautiful thighs. Her stockings were black and sheer, her 
                               shoes spike-heeled with ankle straps.
                  	She was, in a word, gorgeous. My erection, which had flagged a 
                    bit as I waited, stirred to new life. She noted, and smiled 
                  wickedly. "Nice," she said, looking directly at my cock. "I can 
                                        have fun with that."
                     	I found my voice. "You look fantastic, Mistress Miranda. 
                                         Incredibly sexy."
                         	"Did I give you permission to look at me, slave?"
                  	My breath caught. "No, Mistress," I said, and lowered my eyes.
                  	Miranda laughed. "I want you to look at me. I want you to want 
                      me. You can't have me, of course. But wanting is good."
                    	She ordered me to crawl to her. Then, standing over me, she 
                  said in a low voice that chilled me, "I'm going to take you to 
                 that place you've been wanting to go. I'm going to teach you what 
                  your body can feel. I'm going to play with you, and punish you, 
                  and use you for my pleasure. I want more than your obedience. I 
                              want your surrender. Do you understand?"
	I said I did, hoping I did. She made me kiss her shoes and her  , and then placed the plain, heavy
                                       collar on my neck and 
                 locked it in place. Pulling me up by the collar, she whispered a 
                 "safe word" in my ear -- which I silently vowed not to use. Then 
                   she pushed me back down to hands and knees and led me to her 
                                             dungeon.	
                                                		#
                     	Miranda was in no hurry. She kept me kneeling before her 
                    chair, my legs spread wide and my wrists cuffed and locked 
                   together behind my back, while she asked me pointed questions 
                               about my experience and my fantasies.
                   	All the while, she kept touching me, teasingly.

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 She toed my 
                 balls with the point of her shoe, tapped my cock with the tip of 
                  her  , scraped and plucked my nipples with her nails. Once she 
                  let me suck her middle finger, which I did eagerly. I wanted to 
                 make her feel good, and that was the first chance she'd given me.
                  	When she'd learned everything she wanted, she rose and led me 
                  to the X-frame. My cuffed wrists were unhooked from each other, 
                 then fastened high on the wooden crosspieces. Miranda selected a 
                 second, larger pair of cuffs from the wall, and soon my legs were 
                      spread wide, my ankles locked to the foot of the frame.
                  	I had never felt so sexually vulnerable. I was facing out and 
                  leaning back, completely helpless, completely exposed, my cock 
                 hard as an eighteen-year-old's and already dripping from the tip.
                    	"I can see I'm going to have to do something about this," 
                 Miranda said, seizing my cock by the root. "You've obviously been 
                     thinking about fucking me. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
                                	I told the truth. "Yes, Mistress."
                   	She slapped the head of my cock smartly with her free hand, 
  making me gasp. "Forget it. You'll be lucky if I fuck you." Letting go of my cock, she walked to
                                     her collection of sexual 
                toys, and returned with a small harness with several straps. "This 
                        should keep this greedy little cock under control."
                    	A few moments later, my proud shaft was encased in a tight 
                 leather sheath that exposed only the head. One strap went around 
                the root where she had grabbed me. Another went around my scrotum, 
                  while a third separated the balls. It felt as though my entire 
                 manhood was being squeezed in a fist. My cock throbbed, reddened. 
                               Already, I desperately wanted to come.
                   	But Miranda had other plans. Her next choice was a length of 
                 rope with dozens of spring clothespins clamped to it. She gave me 
                  one end of the rope to hold between my teeth, and then began to 
                 decorate my body with the wooden clamps. She started with one on 
                 either side of each nipple, pinching the skin with her fingers to 
                 give the clip a good bite. Then she placed a clothespin directly 
                   on my left nipple, and I moaned -- and dropped the rope I was 
                                         holding for her. 
                  	"I'm going to add to your whipping for that," she said as she 
                   gave me back the end of the rope and resumed her project. The 
                 other nipple was next, then the underside of my arms, the inside 
                 of my thighs, and, finally, my cock. First, she tugged out enough 
                 skin to attach one of the little biting monsters to each side of 
                 my already harnessed scrotum. I almost bit through the rope. Then 
                  she started on the engorged head of my cock, placing one, two, 
                 four, seven clothespins in a semi-circle on the narrow, sensitive 
                                               ridge.
                     	Taking the rope from me, she stepped back to admire her 
                      handiwork. "Look at yourself, in the mirror," she said.
                    	I saw a naked man in complete submission, his limbs spread-
                eagled and restrained, his throbbing cock tormented. I felt like I 
                 was tripping. The tension in my body was incredible. My blood was 
                 on fire. It was as though she was touching me in a hundred places 
                at once, and every one of them was making me crazy with desire. My 
                eyes closed, and I slipped down into the sea of sensation, leaving 
                                          thought behind.
                     	Suddenly I jumped, writhing, as an electric jolt coursed 
                    through me. My right nipple was suddenly burning. What was 
                  happening? I opened my eyes to find that Miranda had folded the 
                     length of rope twice over and was using it to strike the 
                  clothespins from my body. Her aim was true, and every time she 
                    knocked one free, thousands of nerve endings which had been 
                    temporarily overloaded suddenly came back to life shouting 
                                             protests.
                  	The last to go were the seven pins on the head of my cock. By 
                    the time the last dropped to the floor, I was quivering and 
                   hanging limply in my cuffs. Miranda stepped close and ran her 
                 fingertips grazingly over my skin, the touch making me jump. Then 
                 her hand closed around my sheathed cock, and her thumb rubbed the 
                           wetness oozing from the tip all over the head.
                  	"You took that well," she said softly. "Maybe you'll get lucky 
                            after all. But first, I owe you a whipping."
                  	Miranda released me only long enough to turn me around, toward 
                  the frame, so my back and bottom were exposed. I watched in the 
                  mirror as she selected a short, many-stranded whip, then moved 
                 behind me. She started with light strokes that barely warmed the 
                skin, leather kisses on my thighs and ass. The strokes came faster 
                   and harder, until it felt like my skin was glowing. I stopped 
                                   watching. I stopped thinking. 
 	Then Miranda traded the short whip for a long, stiff leather  . The first blow from it lifted me
                                     off my heels and made me 
                 cry out in surprise. She gave me little time to recover, applying 
                      the  vigorously across both cheeks and the backs of my 
                      thighs. The weight of the  and the strength of her arm 
                   carried the shock of each explosion through my whole body. I 
                           moaned, grunted, and fought against my chains.
                   	But the incredible thing was that it didn't hurt. I was past 
                 that. It was a wake-up call to my senses, a charge of pure sexual 
                  energy. All I was was what I was feeling, and all I was feeling 
                     was wave after wave of delicious intensity. I was flying.
                    	After a time I couldn't measure, Miranda stepped up close 
                 behind me, caressed my hot ass and said in a half-whisper, "Now, 
                                  the punishment I promised you."
                  	There was a long moment to wonder. Then I heard the whistle as 
                  it cut the air, and I knew -- it was the  . And when it landed, 
                 it felt like I was being sliced open, a line of fire burning into 
                  my ass cheeks. My body went rigid, and when the  fell a second 
                 time I couldn't hold it all in any more, and screamed. Twice more 
                    the  came down, and then Miranda drew close again, her body 
            brushing against me as she traced the scarlet, swollen marks the  had left. 
                   	She moved away again, leaving me to hang there on the wooden 
                 frame, breathless, shoulders aching, all resistance gone, glowing 
                 inside and out. Time dilated, stopped. The next touch was a hand 
                spreading my ass cheeks, and another hand smearing my opening with 
                       a slippery gel, pushing a lubricated finger inside me.
                     	"Now the reward you've been hoping for," she said softly.
                   	I raised my head and looked sideways at the mirror, and saw 
                that Miranda had shed her leather skirt. She was wearing a harness 
                  that was like a leather G-string, and jutting out from it was a 
                   long black . I watched as she moved in behind me, guided the 
                          head to my asshole, and pushed it up inside me.
                       	It was blissful, humiliating, erotic. I was impaled, 
                     stretched, violated. Miranda was fucking my ass, claiming 
                 possession of me, and all I wanted to do was open to her and give 
                  her whatever she wanted to take. And then she reached around my 
                  waist and loosed the straps on my harness, freeing my cock from 
                 its leather prison. She began to masturbate me, stroking my cock 
                               in rhythm with her reaming of my ass. 
                   	With everything that had gone before, I was on the edge, and 
                 had been for some time. Before long, my gasps and moans betrayed 
                     my approaching orgasm. Miranda took that cue to bury the  
                  deep inside me, tighten her grip, and stroke my cock furiously. 
                  After a long few seconds, I went over the edge, crying out and 
                    writhing as my cock spurted long jets of come into the air.
                                                		#
                   	Miranda took a Polaroid photo of me before she freed me, and 
                  then allowed me to shoot one of her before she changed. I took 
                  that photo, my memories, and the four crisscrossing red stripes 
                      from the   home with me on the plane. I don't know when 
                   I'll next see my friend, or if she'll ever favor me that way 
                 again. But one thing is certain -- I'll never again think I know 
                someone if I haven't seen what they keep, and who they are, behind 
                                           locked doors.
                 ==================================================================
                 A version of this story was published by VARIATIONS in April, 1991
                 as THE SECRET ROOM by David Frazier. This is the original unedited
                              text, as the author meant it to be read.
                 ==================================================================to More 1st Sex Stories
                                                  
                                                  

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