| Possession by Indigo Marr
In another hour she will arrive. Will she arrive? I have doubts. But
does she? Despite how well I know her, this is something beyond the
normal. I sip again from my coffee, with heavy cream, and sink back
into my chair.
The haunting whispers of cellos play behind me. Arvo Part. Tabula
Rasa. "Fratres". I wonder at my choice of music; something so quite for
such a night. Yet the subtlety and sensuality of the music should be
fitting juxtaposition to the events to come.
Now is the time of answers. I set down my now cold cup of coffee and
listen as the CD player spins another disk into place. Arbos. More Arvo
Part. Yes--the music will be quite fitting.
I hear her footsteps stop at the door. I imagine her standing there,
hesitating, gathering herself. From across the room, I notice Xanda look
up from her nap, then return to it with feline indifference. At last the
knock sounds softly on the door. Then after a pause, again--this time more
She opens the door, and steps through, closing it behind her. With a
gesture, I stop her there and take time to again look at her. Many times I
have studied her body, her form, but never openly as I do now.
She stands 5'-9", tight and muscular. Her are small--high and
firm, as is her tight, smooth ass (the shape of which is etched in my
mind). Her long, muscular legs are toned and shaped from years of dance and
her stance is power and grace.
She pulls the wrap from her hair, letting it fall in tight curls to the
middle of her back. She runs one hand vigorously through it, till it lays
wildly about her face, the deep auburn of the hair contrasting with the
paleness of her skin.
"Remove your shoes and your shirt."
Somehow she knows not to say anything. She slips the simple shoes from
her feet, and pulls the thin T- over her head.
The black lace bra follows. She stands now in only the faded jeans that
fit so well on her long legs.
"That is the most you may wear."
She simply nods.
"Now remove them."
She slips easily out of the worn denim to stand naked before me. I take
my time to look at her. She is exquisite--and tonight she is mine.
I stand and walk towards her. I wear only an pair of jeans.
My own form is like hers, tall and lean. A fine musculature is evident,
though not overly defined. Mine is not a body of brute strength, but of
precision strength. A touch of grace, a walk of confidence.
Her eyes fall away from my gaze as I approach. I walk slowly around
her, close, yet not quite touching. I inhale her aroma, the touch of
perfume, the flowery cleanness of her shampoo. The hint of musk, whether
from fear or arousal, I don't know.
Once again behind her, I stop. With a gentle finger, I brush the hair
away from her ear, letting it's smoothness caress my finger as I pull it
away. I lean slightly forward, my mouth at her ear, my breath flowing
warmly down her neck. "The word is Picasso." My whisper falls warmly in
her ear. She simply nods. "Say it."
"Good. When I next hear that word, I stop. Do you understand?"
She nods again.
"Do you?" The tone of my voice causes her to look at me out of the
corner of her eye, a touch of fear passing over her face. "When I next
hear that word I stop. Immediately. Completely. I do not start again.
You dress and go home. No second chances." I pull back and place my mouth
at her other ear. "Until then, you are mine. Completely mine." My hand
reaches around to her tight stomach, stroking firmly along the warm skin. I
feel her shudder at my touch. This time I know it's pleasure. Again my
hand goes to her stomach, this time lower, touching the edge of the short
curls at its base. With my left hand I cup her small firm breast, pulling
her toward me. My lips press against the smooth roundness of her neck
tongue darting out to stroke her flesh before my lips make contact or my
teeth lightly nip. The pressure of my hands increases-- the left holding
firmly to her breast, the thumb roughly stroking across her tight nipple;
the fingers of the right slipping past the hot outer lips of her mound to
the moist smoothness farther in.
I take my time. I have all night. Slowly I bring her farther along.
Her breath becomes deeper, and her back arches, pressing her tight ass
against my hips. Yes, she's enjoying this. But not quite enough yet. I
slow down even more, letting her slip back from the edge. She was close,
but not close enough. Gently. Slowly caressing. Light kisses on soft
flesh. She slips farther back, beginning to adjust to the new pace, the
new rhythms. I smile to myself, and then...
I sink my teeth into the muscle of her shoulder as I thrust my fingers
deep into her. The nails of my left hand dig into the softness of her
breast. There will be bruises tomorrow. Her reaction is immediate and
quite satisfying. Her entire body clenches, as a short scream rips from
her lips. The sudden spasm causes her ass to press even harder against me,
and her to grip tightly around my searching finger. Her hands fly
behind her to sink their nails deeply into my sides. The pain is
delicious. I don't let up. My teeth rake harshly down her neck and my left
hand pinches tightly on her beautiful breast, pressing her sensitive nipple
between my rough fingers. The other hand grinds roughly against her mound,
my long finger deep within her, firmly massaging the wet walls.
Past the initial shock, she likes it. I can feel it building again in
her. Rising. Closer. Closer. Almost. She hangs right at the edge of
orgasm...and I stop. Suddenly and without warning. I step back, spinning
her to face me, then remove even that slight touch. For a long second she
stands in utter shock, unable to breathe, unable to move, only staring at
me, a pleading in her eyes. She recovers enough to begin bringing her hand
"No!" My voice is only a whisper, but the power behind it is enough to
stop her. "This is not for you." Her breath comes in panting gasps. I can
see her try by sheer will to reach that last step. I don't let her.
She slips slowly, almost painfully, to her knees. She knows what I
want--and I know she doesn't want to. I don't care. As I said: this was
She lifts her face to me silently asking for a reprieve. I give none. I
want this too much. And so does she.
Her hands come up and, one by one, pull apart the buttons of my faded
Levi's. Like her, I wear no underwear tonight. I am, of course, already
hard. She ignores this long enough to pull the worn jeans down the length
of my legs and wait for me to step out of them. Then her eyes return to my
crotch. For several seconds she hesitates, biting her lips; looking at the
hard shaft in front of her. I can feel the warmth of her breath against
the sensitive skin. A moment before I say something, she leans forward and
lightly kisses the head. A second time she kisses it, this time harder.
She knows this is not what I desire. Not enough. She takes a deep breath
to steady herself, runs her tongue across her lips, and places her hands on
my narrow hips. I catch her glance up at me briefly before she places her
mouth over me.
Her movements are hesitant, and without much skill. The warm wetness of
her mouth and movement of her tongue are enough to suffice. That and the
knowledge of whose mouth I'm in. Slowly she develops a rhythm. Her tongue
moves to lengthen the strokes of her mouth, and the pressure of her gentle
suction increases my pleasure.
I feel one slender hand reach under and cup my balls. Slowly, unsure,
she begins to fondle them, then grips them firmer as my reactions show my
pleasure. My hips are now thrusting easily to the rhythm of her own
movements. I can feel the pressure rise as she becomes more confident, the
motions of her mouth and manipulation of her hand working ever harder on
me. Soon I feel myself reach the crest. A few more strokes, a little more
pressure.... At last it rushes over me, and I release a flow of warm
liquid into her warm mouth. She begins to pull her head away as my orgasm
first sprays into her mouth, but I hold her head with a firm grip as I
thrust forward and slowly back, out the pleasure, extending the
feeling as long as possible.
Sated, I let her pull her head back. I can see she still holds the warm
liquid of my orgasm in her mouth, unsure what to do with it, her eyes
looking around for somewhere to spit it out. I simply wait until she comes
to the right realization, and lets the salty fluid run down her throat.
I smile as I watch her, feeling the slight movement of air through the
open loft cool against my chest and thighs: the thin layer of sweat drying
slowly. Her own body shows a faint shine of moisture. Despite the warmth
of the air, the small hairs on her arms stand up, the skin tight with
With a single finger place beneath her chin, I draw her up. Her eyes
are downcast, looking past the tight points of her and moist curls
of her mons to the rich luster of the hardwood floor. Through the slight
contact of my finger, I feel her tongue and throat working, trying to
remove the last of the taste of me. I simply smile again before crossing
to the side of the room. Still, I have no more contact than the end of my
finger beneath her chin, yet this is leash enough to draw her after me. I
walk slowly backwards, my eyes upon her face, her eyes upon the floor, to
stop before the upright timber post. Five others like it support the vast
roof of the warehouse loft. Between them is only space, and such minimal
furnishings as I have deemed necessary.
In a slow and fleeting dance, we turn--three gentle steps--and she
stands with her back to the rough timber. The light from the single
fixture above her casts warm, dim glow over her pale skin; shadows long and
sensual caress her. Below the silver housing of the light, a glint
reflects from the polished surface of a stainless steel ring. bolts
pass through the ring-plate into the rich solidity of the post. This plate
and ring which once supported a ceiling of northern hardwood in a grand
operatic theatre, now await a more delicate burden.
I remove the slight touch of my finger from her chin, pausing before I
speak. "Raise them." Her face drops lower as she raises her hands above
her. I reach easily to her wrists, and the cold cuffs of steel that hang
from the polished ring to her warm flesh. These are not custom cuffs from
an expensive boutique-- they have no velvet lining, no safeties nor secret
release catches. These are cold, unforgiving steel.
With care, I close them around her delicate wrists; the even
click of the catches sounding like a slow malevolent clock. At last, they
grasp her wrists snugly. I step back and look at her. To my left, Xanda
wakes again, stretching her lean black body, and surveying the odd
behaviors of her master and his guest with a true feline detachment.
Deciding the scene worth her attention, she stalks gracefully towards us.
She stops at the foot of my guest, smelling tentatively at her ankles and
calves, before licking the salty sweat from her instep. A slight nip of
her tiny teeth upon the captive's foot, and Xanda wanders off again,
unwilling to expend the effort needed to decipher the strangeness before
I follow her, in a way. I walk to the door and dim the lights to
blackness, leaving my captive lover in the warm glow of the single fixture.
In the darkness, I return to the center of the room, and again pull the
faded denim of my warm Levi's over my legs. Quietly, I move the small
leather ottoman and warn matching chair from which I had watched for her
arrival, to face where she now stands. Relaxed, I sit back into the soft
embrace of the chair and let out a deep breath of contentment. I glance
briefly at the glowing numerals of the clock against the wall: 6:49. I
have time, yet. I have time.
For the next hour, I do nothing-- I watch her.
I have decided. It was difficult, but I know now. I could have
continued with the subtleties, the sensualness and denial. It was her
movement, though this past hour that decided me. She stood there, her arms
chained above her, and did not struggle. She accepted. Her movements were
those of discomfort in her position, embarrassment at her situation. It is
not enough. No, not enough.
As I stand from the chair, her head comes up to look for me in the
darkness. Perhaps she can see me, perhaps not: either way, it does not
matter. The end effect will be the same. She will either fear what she
sees me prepare for, or fear the unknown possibilities. I smile.
Arrayed on one wall, each placed with artistic precision, I have a
display. They are toys, or tools, or harmless pieces of amusement. It
depends on the user. And the use. Tonight they are tools. I pause in
front of the wall before choosing. Does she see me? I reach up and remove
my choice. A white nylon whip--a style I refer to as a brush. 50 soft
cords emerge from the dark-stained wood of the handle to end each in a hard
bead of melted nylon 18 inches from their source. The cords are each of a
slightly different length; more surface touched with each brush of the
sharp, hard ends.
I stand in front of her now, seeing the look in her eyes, knowing she
will say nothing. I take her by the shoulder and gently turn her to face
the rough timber. I look appreciatively at the redness of her back and her
ass where the post rubbed against her. A fitting preparation.
With her and stomach pressed against the harshness of the wood,
and her face turned to the side, I step close to her, my hand on the warm
redness of her ass, my finger caressing between the tender cheeks and down
farther. My chest presses into her back, forcing her harder
against the roughness of the wood, as I whisper in her ear.
"I think this has been too easy for you. This is not to be easy." My
finger, caressing the tight bud of her anus, presses suddenly in, the dry
intrusion making only minimal advance, but effecting the desired result.
Her face clenches with the small pain--more from the suddenness than the
ferocity. I do not wish her serious harm. She doesn't know this.
Perception and anticipation are tools to my advantage that I am most
willing to use, however. Again I press my finger inward, this time strong
and slow, pushing past the clenched muscle to just graze the softer tissue
beyond. "This is to be very, very...hard."
With a single swift movement, I step back, yanking my finger from her
muscular grasp, and swing down in a smooth strong stroke with the whip
against the exposed cheeks. Her short, sharp scream cuts through the
silence and warm darkness of the large room. "No one can hear you, my
dear," The whip again strikes against the soft flesh of her ass, the beads
of melted plastic stinging sharply into her. "but there's a question:"
Again, the white cords sing down upon her. "do I want to hear your
screams?" Again it strikes, the sound of it making me hard as much as her
reactions "Do I enjoy that?" And again. "Or does it anger me?" And again.
"Do you think you know?" And again. Fine, thin welts begin to raise from
the flaming flesh. I alter my stroke to place the next strikes on
Unsure of the answer to my taunts, she holds her voice; little gasps
escaping, while the sharp cries are trapped in her throat. I don't care
either way. Let her cry out or not. It's not the action, but the fear of
wrong action that is the stimulus. As I reach twenty, I see a tear escape
from her clenched eye. I know from experience that the pain is not that
much. It is the sharpness of the strikes, and the thought of it that is
the true action. The tear is a result of her tightness, the clench of her
eyes and the trapping of her cries. Had I truly wished pain on her, this
would not have been my tool.
I lay the soft whip down, and leaving her standing so, silently remove
my pants again. From a cool bottle at hand, I spread soothing lotion
across the fire of her ass and thighs, slipping my hands between the soft
cheeks and lower to caress her moist lips and the hard bud of her anus.
Slick with the cooling salve and the wetness of her own arousal, I again
press my finger past the tight muscle of her bud. Slowly at first, then
with greater force, I press it into her, scraping at the soft sensitive
tissues within. I hear her gasps, feel her body tighten, trying to resist.
She doesn't want this. She can't want this. This is not what she likes. I
can almost hear the thoughts pass through her mind. And yet, her body
responds to me, to the unwanted intrusion, with pleasure.
As I pull my finger from her, her back arches, her ass follows my hand
back, wanting to keep me within her. I see her shaking her head, trying to
deny the reactions. I know she is disgusted by this. She hates the
knowledge of what I'm doing, yet loves that I am doing it.
I press myself against her, my hardness laying in the crevice of her
ass, feeling the heat of it, the soreness of it. From my other hand, I
produce the key, and release her hands from the steel, now warm from the
touch of her for so long. The key drops from my hand to the floor, no
longer needed. Slowly she lowers her arms, stiff and sore from their
confinement, and hugs the rough timber in front of her. My own hands reach
around in one long caress from her shoulders, across her sensitive and sore
breasts, down her stomach to the insides of her thighs. I carefully avoid
her mons. Not now. This is different.
Again, I can almost hear the thoughts. I know the feelings passing
through her. She hates it this way. This way is wrong. It is disgusting.
She hates it. The litany almost echoes in the room, and yet her body does
not listen. Her feet slide back with my own. Knees locked, arms still
hugging her face to the post, she bends at the waist, arching her back and
presenting her ass to me. I take it.
With one hand on her hip, I use the other to aim the head into the
slick, tight knot of her anus. I feel her stiffen and pull away as I press
forward, but my hand holds firmly to her hip, keeping her there. After a
few long seconds she relaxes, then presses back against me, resigned to the
As I slide into her, I place my other hand on her hip, holding her
firmly as I push deeper and deeper into her until I can go no farther. I
pause only briefly letting her become almost accustomed to the feeling,
then pull back and begin again to thrust forward. This time, I take no
pause, but begin to stroke again and again into her. This is my pleasure.
This is for me, and she must know it.
I wrap my arms around her, a grasped tightly in each hand. She
straightens up as I pull her towards me and press us both against the post
in the same movement. After digging my short nails again into her breast,
hearing her let loose a quiet scream, I, too, grab the post, pressing
myself tightly against her, and her against the sharp frayings of the wood.
Hard and fast, I thrust into her, the angle of our bodies twisting my
passage upwards, rubbing harshly against her inside. Finally, I can take
no more: thrusting deep within her and holding there, I come in wet
spurts. Pull back and thrust again, holding as the spasms pass through me.
And again. The pleasure of hypersensitivity becoming almost a pain. And
one last time. I hold deep within her, listening to the gasps of air
through her mouth, feeling the heave of her chest playing against my own. I
can't tell if the gasps are from pleasure or tears. Perhaps both.
Slowly I pull out. I want to be gentle with her, caress her, be a
lover. I stop myself. That is not what tonight is about. Instead, I
swallow, making sure my voice is strong and confident, yet deep and quiet.
"Run the water in the bath. You may wash yourself after you bathe me."
From across the room I hear the muted shuffle and click as a new disk
slips into place in the player. Te Deum. More Arvo Part. In front of me
steaming water pours into the antique claw-foot tub. The moist paleness of
her skin blends with the ivory porcelain of the tub as she kneels beside
it. Her auburn hair, wet against her back and shoulders, clinging to the
sweat and condensing steam, balances the dark rich stain of the hardwood
floor upon which she kneels. And the bright slashes curving around her
ass and under to her thighs, stand out, bright and beautiful against the
stark serenity of the scene.
She kneels facing away from me; her left hand swishing idly in the
water, adjusting the flow from the polished brass fixtures, keeping the
temperature hot without being scalding. I do nothing other than watch her
as the massive tub fills slowly. I enjoy watching her. I enjoy her
knowing she is being watched even more. For this night she is my
possession. Mine to use. Mine to control. Mine.
She slowly turns the taps, stopping the flow of water, and turns, her
head down slightly. She says nothing, but with her posture and expression
lets me know that both she and the bath are ready. As I rise from my chair
and walk toward her, I find myself aroused again. It's painful. That in
itself adds to my arousal. I watch her eyes widen slightly as she notices.
I'm unsure of the reason behind her expression. Perhaps later I'll ask.
She is still kneeling as I stop in front of her. Her eyes are still
cast down at the floor; fine strands of auburn hair clinging to her face.
With a single finger under her chin, I lift her eyes to mine. "And how
would you like it this time?" I watch as a series of fine movements pass
across the mask of her face. Her eyes again look at the floor, then
briefly up at me before returning downward. Finally she leans forward and
places her lips against me. A brief kiss. And then again, this time
letting them part letting me feel the soft warmth of her tongue as it
grazes against the sensitive flesh. I stop her with a simple touch, and
look into her eyes. "Then I shall use the other end."
I step around behind her, and lower myself easily to my knees. With one
hand I press against her back until she rests upon her hands. Without a
command, she raises herself to me. I run my hand across the reddened
flesh, feeling the slight raising where the whip's strands caressed her. I
let my hand slip between her thighs to the swollen lips. They are slick
and warm. My fingers stroke between them, then up between the reddened
cheeks to the small knot. Twice more I repeat this. I watch as her back
tenses and releases, listen to her breath grow deeper, and feel as her hips
respond with a light pressure against my hand, following its progress.
The pain in my groin grows tighter as I press it against her. I take my
time positioning myself, feeling as she responds to it, until slowly yet
strongly I enter her again. Her muscles clench around the intrusion, not
just those I am passing though, but her entire body. My hands grasp the
softness of her sides as I press deeper into her. I can sense her pain
even as I feel my own. Pain which is pleasure. Pain which is also
The flesh worn from the two earlier times, sensations other than the
pleasant pain are numbed. I continue to stroke, slow and steady, my nails
raking across the tight muscles of her back, and into the softer flesh of
her sides. She begins to thrust back against me, trying to increase the
tempo, lengthen the strokes. I hold my pace, and listen as squeals escape
from clenched teeth. I ignore her pleasure as much as I am able, and
concentrate upon my own. This is for me, and she must know that. Her
sensitivity must be now, the pain which is pleasure becoming pain
again. She tries to pull away, while still me deeper with her
muscles. I press even firmer against her, with each stroke, until she is
laying flat upon the rich smooth wood of the floor.
My legs press out against hers, causing the cheeks of her ass to grip
firmer around me. Her hands are stretched out in front of her trying in
vain to gain a hold in the polished wood. The pain becomes a pressure
inside me. I continue, not changing speed, not changing force, letting the
sound of her breath and the feel of her ass urge me on. In the end I feel
nothing except the pressure and the pain. The smoothness of inside her
doesn't register; only the wonderful pain, and consuming pressure, until at
last it peaks and I release what is left into her.
I remain erect, within the tightness of her ass, and lay myself down
fully upon her back. The sweat of our bodies mixing as I do so. With one
hand I brush the sweat-soaked hair from her neck, and place my lips gently
against it. Then without warning, I sink my teeth into the relaxed
tenseness along the spine. As my teeth sink deep into her neck, until the
faint taste of blood touches my tongue, I thrust my hips forward again,
pushing the last bit of my erection into her. This time the scream
After two deep breaths, I pull slowly from within her and stand. Taking
another second to breathe, I step lightly into the steaming water of the
tub and lower myself gently into it. The heat and steam-laden air work
with my exhaustion and lack of breath; a sensation and numbness pass over
me, sending swarms of color to dance in blackness within my eyes. I relax
into it, and try not to slip under the water.
A noise beside me brings me back. She has drawn herself up to her knees
again, and is leaning over the side of the tub, her hands wringing the
excess water from the washcloth they hold. I look at her face, for some
sign of her emotions. beneath the sweat, the matted hair, and the
flush, is a smile.
Properly washed and toweled dry, my long hair bushed, yet still damp
against the pillow, I lay. She is beside me, he leg draped over mine, her
face laid gently on my chest. She, too, smells clean. The fingers of my
left hand absently trace the lines of the whip. I feel her lips form a
smile against my chest before the tighten to a light kiss. My own smile
"Care to try another bet? Just to even the score?" "I might." "So tell
me, Indigo, what'll you ask for if you win?"