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Archive-name: Bondage/bedtim06.txt

Archive-author: Alan Michaels

Archive-title: 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, restraints, 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 riding crop  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&S," 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 crop , 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 crop , 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. She toed my 

balls with the point of her shoe, tapped my cock with the tip of 

her crop , 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 paddle . 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 paddle vigorously across both cheeks and the backs of my 

thighs. The weight of the paddle 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 crop . 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 crop fell a second 

time I couldn't hold it all in any more, and screamed. Twice more 

the crop came down, and then Miranda drew close again, her body 

brushing against me as she traced the scarlet, swollen marks the crop 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 dildo. 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 dildo 

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 riding crop  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.

==================================================================



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