time denying who you really are.”
“I have not.” I was indignant.
“I believe you have. How old are you, Laura?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“And when did you start having fantasies of a woman dominating you?”
“Uhm. Seventeen?”
“You see what I mean, then. It took ten years before you were willing to act on what makes you happy, to operate from who you really are.”
Jeanne poured herself some wine and came back over. She ran her hand lazily over my body, stopping to feel the weight of my breast in her hand. I decided to hold my tongue and not argue. I could easily dismantle her point about Balthus and his Jewish heritage. He was not an anti-Semite. And I didn’t believe I’d said anything indicating I was ashamed of who I am. Jeanne was up to something I didn’t know the purpose of, which was her prerogative as a dominant. I just hoped she didn’t talk too long.
“Then there’s Balthus’s subject matter, which has always been controversial. What do you make of The Guitar Lesson ? Can you deny he depicted a girl in a sexual pose with a grown woman?”
Oh, dear. I felt as Balthus must have. Pilloried for something he never intended.
“Balthus maintained until his dying day that he simply showed the sometimes confused sexualities of adolescents,” I said.
“And you believe this?”
“Perhaps you should read my dissertation.”
The air seemed chilly now. Jeanne continued to sip her wine, staring at me as if I were a new installation at Madame Tussauds. After several minutes of silence, I couldn’t stand the discomfort. Hanging by my wrists on the X-cross was fine. It was the psychological discomfort of the silence I couldn’t stand.
“I’m sorry you don’t approve of the subject for my dissertation. If you were to read it, I’d welcome your comments.”
Jeanne smiled now, putting down her glass. She began to disengage me from the cross.
“It’s just the opposite. I applaud your choice. I think it’s distinguished and brave, and I’m sure you’ll be published.”
She took me over to the sofa to sit and drink some water while she rummaged in the armoire. I was convinced there was some magical space behind the armoire large enough to hold every sex toy ever created. When she came back she instructed me to turn and face the rear of the sofa, kneel on the seat cushion, and brace myself with my arms on the back. She put a blindfold on me. She put the gag back in my mouth. Before she put plugs in my ears she said, “I’m shutting down some of your senses so you will feel this completely. I’m not tying you into place, but you will stay exactly where you are, in exactly this pose, until I tell you to move.”
Then she put the plugs in my ears. I couldn’t see, hear, or speak. But I could feel. The cold surprise of lube being pushed into my ass by a dildo—I felt that. It was not as large as the dildos she’d used in my pussy. I would have been trying to scream bloody murder if it were. As it was, I moaned the whole time she pushed it in. It was slow, and it hurt, but I also wanted to cry with joy. I completely trusted her. I felt bonded to her. The higher up my ass she went, the closer to her I felt. Perhaps that’s not the most romantically worded sentiment, but the entire week of beatings and suspensions and orgasms all culminated in this one act—me, unchained, held in place by nothing more than my desire to give myself to her. It was hard to think of this as just sex. There was something else entirely going on.
When the dildo was all the way in she locked it in place with a belt of some sort and walked away. I didn’t hear her leave, but I could tell she was no longer there. I had no idea how long she’d be gone. I thought about Balthus.
Chapter Four—Adele
After a solid week of sweet punishment, I can’t say I wasn’t glad to spend a night or two at home. I was falling behind on the schedule I’d set to complete my dissertation. And I was late getting papers back
“I have not.” I was indignant.
“I believe you have. How old are you, Laura?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“And when did you start having fantasies of a woman dominating you?”
“Uhm. Seventeen?”
“You see what I mean, then. It took ten years before you were willing to act on what makes you happy, to operate from who you really are.”
Jeanne poured herself some wine and came back over. She ran her hand lazily over my body, stopping to feel the weight of my breast in her hand. I decided to hold my tongue and not argue. I could easily dismantle her point about Balthus and his Jewish heritage. He was not an anti-Semite. And I didn’t believe I’d said anything indicating I was ashamed of who I am. Jeanne was up to something I didn’t know the purpose of, which was her prerogative as a dominant. I just hoped she didn’t talk too long.
“Then there’s Balthus’s subject matter, which has always been controversial. What do you make of The Guitar Lesson ? Can you deny he depicted a girl in a sexual pose with a grown woman?”
Oh, dear. I felt as Balthus must have. Pilloried for something he never intended.
“Balthus maintained until his dying day that he simply showed the sometimes confused sexualities of adolescents,” I said.
“And you believe this?”
“Perhaps you should read my dissertation.”
The air seemed chilly now. Jeanne continued to sip her wine, staring at me as if I were a new installation at Madame Tussauds. After several minutes of silence, I couldn’t stand the discomfort. Hanging by my wrists on the X-cross was fine. It was the psychological discomfort of the silence I couldn’t stand.
“I’m sorry you don’t approve of the subject for my dissertation. If you were to read it, I’d welcome your comments.”
Jeanne smiled now, putting down her glass. She began to disengage me from the cross.
“It’s just the opposite. I applaud your choice. I think it’s distinguished and brave, and I’m sure you’ll be published.”
She took me over to the sofa to sit and drink some water while she rummaged in the armoire. I was convinced there was some magical space behind the armoire large enough to hold every sex toy ever created. When she came back she instructed me to turn and face the rear of the sofa, kneel on the seat cushion, and brace myself with my arms on the back. She put a blindfold on me. She put the gag back in my mouth. Before she put plugs in my ears she said, “I’m shutting down some of your senses so you will feel this completely. I’m not tying you into place, but you will stay exactly where you are, in exactly this pose, until I tell you to move.”
Then she put the plugs in my ears. I couldn’t see, hear, or speak. But I could feel. The cold surprise of lube being pushed into my ass by a dildo—I felt that. It was not as large as the dildos she’d used in my pussy. I would have been trying to scream bloody murder if it were. As it was, I moaned the whole time she pushed it in. It was slow, and it hurt, but I also wanted to cry with joy. I completely trusted her. I felt bonded to her. The higher up my ass she went, the closer to her I felt. Perhaps that’s not the most romantically worded sentiment, but the entire week of beatings and suspensions and orgasms all culminated in this one act—me, unchained, held in place by nothing more than my desire to give myself to her. It was hard to think of this as just sex. There was something else entirely going on.
When the dildo was all the way in she locked it in place with a belt of some sort and walked away. I didn’t hear her leave, but I could tell she was no longer there. I had no idea how long she’d be gone. I thought about Balthus.
Chapter Four—Adele
After a solid week of sweet punishment, I can’t say I wasn’t glad to spend a night or two at home. I was falling behind on the schedule I’d set to complete my dissertation. And I was late getting papers back
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