The Sadist

The Sadist The Sadist

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

A young ingenue finds herself in over her head with a tall, dark stranger in his dungeon. Tied up and tied down, she is thoroughly plundered and left forever marked by the experience.

Summary

A young ingenue finds herself in over her head with a tall, dark stranger in his dungeon. Tied up and tied down, she is thoroughly plundered and left forever marked by the experience.

Content

Submitted: August 23, 2013

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Content

Submitted: August 23, 2013

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“But he could have killed you!”  Julie says.

 

“But he didn’t” I say.

 

“But he could have. No one knew where you were?” Carol asks.

 

“Not a soul. My European itinerary was unknown even to me. I just went with it.” I say.

 

“You’re crazy!” Julie says.

 

“Maybe. Look, I had a friend, a girlfriend I was staying with in Munich, but she had a day job and I was busying myself with all the tourist things to do there. I didn’t call her, I didn’t really have time. That day, I was saying goodbye to a lover and she knew I would be out with him for lunch. As for anything else, she wasn’t my chaperone. My lover was off to Italy to work on some opera and wouldn’t be coming back for a few months. But that’s all she knew. She knew Francis from the café where she worked. She introduced us. She didn’t figure he’d be anything more than a tour guide for me. He was 62.”

 

“You had a 62 year old lover when you were 21? I don’t understand that.” Julie says, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead. This means she wants me to say that I’m kidding, that I’m having her on. But she sees I’m not so she scrunches her nose up. She does this when I describe anything sexual or having to do with foreign food.

 

“Francis was a classical music composer, a wonderful conversationalist. Funny. Really great guy. We had a ball in Munich. He was English and had been there for over 20 years. He had grown children, two I think, with his first wife and I guess he just stayed after they split up. Anyway, his age was not really an issue. He was attractive to me on a lot of levels. I just made the move with him first. Now, I think, of course he went for it! I was 21 and he’s 62! But I like to think there was more to it than that for him too.”

 

“Okay, it’s weird, but whatever. Go back to this other guy. This sadist.” Julie says sadist like it’s a new word for her mouth. She’s so fearful of men. I don’t think she’ll ever understand the attraction of dangerous men. She lives with a librarian. He’s sort of a man. I’m not sure Roger would know how to hold a hammer.

 

“The sadist. Yes, well, he was oh, I don’t know, maybe 38 –39. Really handsome. Dark haired, dark skinned. Liquid brown eyes, like chocolate. Beautiful hands and a great smile. I was in this restaurant, on the patio, having an early dinner by myself after my lover left on the train. This guy and I started flirting, glancing at each other at first, and then gazing. Almost daring the other to look away first.”

 

“God, you’re awful, you’ve just said goodbye to one lover and now you’re lining up another one?” Carol says but she’s smiling, almost laughing. To me, that smile looks like envy together with a pat on the back for having the courage to be so free and yet, so stupid.

 

My friends enjoy my stories. I’m daring and brassy. They think my life is a lark, especially my past. I shock, I tease. They love me for more than this, I know, but it’s been a while since I’ve regaled them, so I play along today. Secretly I envy their lives. Julie, with her steadfast man. How can she still be in love and not be bored, after all these years? And Carol, with her dedication to her art. How she passes up on one night stands and flings, and goes home to paint and sculpt and be true to herself, I don’t know, but I admire her strength.

 

Though this story I’m spinning out is nothing like what I lead now, it still haunts me. I sometimes find myself half- heartedly searching for these thrills, but in my heart I know they’re dead forever. I can’t live that way anymore. And it’s certainly no longer recommended by the board of health. Erica Jong called them ‘zipless fucks’. I thought her book Fear of Flying was a model for free living. Now I see a series of faces, men’s faces, and wonder exactly what price have I paid for this past.

 

True love, steady love, respect and kindness are what I crave now. But I’m caught in this funny ‘in between’, having lived too much for my age and searching for another evolved soul around my age with the same life experience. Street smart and tender. Been there and done that, but still hopeful. There are few candidates. I can’t even begin to say these things out loud. So for today, this lunch, I will drag out the Jezebel once again, for entertainment’s sake.

 

“Oh, come on Carol. I was on vacation, I was 21 and I’d just dumped a boyfriend in Toronto that treated me like dirt and denied me sex for about 3 months. He made me feel like he was doing me a favour by being with me. He tried to help me because I was a ‘nice girl who doesn’t know any better’ Gary, the conflicted Jew, forever drawn to the nubile Shiksas. Gary was 10 years older and never let me forget it. My self-esteem had taken a beating. Here I am traveling around Europe with beautiful and interesting men falling all over themselves to meet me and you think I’m going to be chaste? Please! My motto was this phrase in my head that my mother said once when I complained of construction workers wolf whistling at me; she said,

 

“Daaahhrrrling, you should really only complain when they stop!”

 

Anyway, the sadist. I don’t know his name. I’m not sure I ever really knew it. He had a confidence, a moxy, that had me seduced from the moment we locked eyes. I found that unnerving and exciting. I was so full of myself back then, I thought,

 

‘He doesn’t know what he’s in for with me!’

 

 But he didn’t waver. He was sitting with 2 or 3 other men, I think they were discussing business or something. Even at my age, I could tell he was a man that liked a challenge. But he remained in his chair and made no motion to cross the patio to talk to me. This pissed me off and I was damned if I was going to throw myself at him.

 

Finally, I couldn’t stall anymore, couldn’t take any longer to put on my lipstick and gather my things. So I signal for the cheque. I was leaving. The waiter comes over and says the bill is paid for. He says in halting English, that the gentleman over there took care of it for me. He’s pointing to my moxy man. Wasn’t that smooth? Imagine a man doing that in Toronto.

 

Well, I get up and go over to thank him. I start in English, but he looks bewildered, so I switch to French. He’s trying German but I’m shaking my head. He switches to Italian but it’s no use. Four languages between the two of us, and no go. We’re laughing about this. But it doesn’t really matter. He takes me by the wrist, says goodbye to his friends and leads me away to a taxi on the street. I don’t know why I don’t stop him. I just kind of surrendered. I knew it would be exciting but I had no idea what was in store for me.”

 

I pause, dramatically and take a sip of my wine.

 

It’s a beautiful day and I’m on this patio with my girlfriends, warm spring sunshine on our backs and the breeze, it’s lovely. I felt a little like I did that day in Munich almost 18 years ago. I feel free. The sun, the wine, these rare candid talks with my two best friends. For the moment, my stagnating career and heavy responsibilities of my life and my child are forgotten. I’m lost in this memory. It undoes me every time I think about him.

 

It’s funny, I remember every detail about what this man did to me, what he looked like, even the sounds he made when he was with me, but I can’t remember his name. It makes me think that maybe I never asked him and somehow I regret that now, after all this time. I wish I knew his name. I continue.

 

“In the cab, he holds my hand, as if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. He’s so familiar with me. It’s comforting and strange. We pull up in front of another restaurant and I think,,

 

‘My God, are we going to eat again?’

 

 Then he leads me downstairs.

 

Oh Christ, no! Is he taking me to the washrooms to have sex?”

 

 He takes out a massive ring of keys from his coat pocket and opens an office door. I step inside this beautiful room, with high ceilings, low lights, lots of huge, soft, nicely worn leather furniture; overstuffed chairs and an enormous sofa with beautiful hand hammered giant tacks on the arms of it. It’s the colour of pecans. I run my hand over the arm of it  and realize it’s hip height. I’m in heels, so it’s gigantic. I feel a little like a kid.

 

My host, perhaps the owner of this place, is sitting behind his desk now. He’s distant, back to being a stranger. His hands are steepled in front of him and he’s smiling. I turn to him and he motions for me to undress. He holds up his index finger and flicks it at my clothes. 

 

 You know these guys, they want to drag out the moment. The unveiling. I figure I’ll go along. I’ll more than go along. He doesn’t know I’m a stripper so, isn’t he in for a surprise?”

 

I pause here and gauge my friends’ reactions. This is by far, the most candid and sexual in my talk than I’ve ever been with them.

 

Back then, my big kick was the power I got from stripping. It was my job and it played a big role in my sex life. The sex in my head, not my body. You could say I was frigid, sort of. I didn’t get turned on physically, just mentally. As long as I was in control, things were okay. I hadn’t learned to enjoy sex to the fullest at that point. I just got off on the whole show of it.

 

I sound blasé with this story. I’m not though and even after ten years of not being a stripper, I’m still rehearsing answers about why I danced, for how long I danced, and what a table dance is made of. When it’s an audience of women that need the explanations, I usually dry up. Men are another story. Men don’t need a reason for you to be up there, naked and gyrating. Being there is reason enough. Goddess worship at it’s simplest. Start a relationship with one though and it’s a whole other ball game. My answers are never satisfactory then. Not to these men and not even to myself. Coming home after spending a night fondling yourself and seducing a bar full of men, you’re expected to be forthcoming with real affection, real sex, real love. It’s just not a normal life. So you fake it with them too to avoid the fights.

 

 

“So I started to do a real slow strip tease for him.” I say.

 

“The guy must have thought he’d won the bloody lottery! And you’re not even shy about it. Imagine that, he doesn’t know you’re a peeler.” Julie says.

 

She’s laughing and probably envious, as a lot of women are when the tales are filigreed, with all the dirty bits cleaned up. 

 

She’s on her second glass of wine, her cheeks are flushed and there’s wine stains on her lips. I wonder what Roger would say if he saw her now, leaning on the banister, with her head tilted back a little and her hair coming alive in the light. I hope he would see how beautiful she really is when she lets go a little.

 

‘Aren’t we all?’ I think to myself.

 

 “Was there music playing? How did you do it? You must have felt kinda funny. Did you go real slow and watch him salivate? ” Julie says.

 

“Yeah, I just went into automatic stripper mode. It was second nature. I got what I hadn’t bargained for though. He gets up from his chair, comes around his desk and throws me over the arm of the sofa. Just forces me over it. He’s stopped me before I could take off my stay ups and boots. I had been wearing a light sweater, a jacket and a suede miniskirt. So he leans me over it, undoes his pants and then he just shoves it in. I’m completely taken aback. I’m so disappointed that this beautiful man is so inconsiderate. That this ‘mysterious and hot European sex moment’ is turning into a typical ‘guy being a selfish pig’ moment. He starts spanking me then and I’m in a rage. How dare he? Who does he think he is? And what’s in this for me? My nylons are ripping on the tacks of the sofa and before I can get him to stop, he comes. Then he just pulls out. He’s done. I’m so surprised, I just lay there over this sofa arm and think

 

‘How the hell am I going to deal with this? I can’t even talk to him! What a prick!’

 

“That’s what makes him a sadist? That he just, just does that?” Julie asks.

 

“ Oh sweety! No.” I sigh. I can’t help but love her when she plays the girly girl.

 

“That would account for as lot of sadists out there then, wouldn’t it? They’re just called selfish lovers. So, I’m lying there trying to figure out what has just happened exactly, it was all so fast. Then he does something really weird. He turns me over and starts kissing me so tenderly. Just kissing me, really deep, passionate kisses, like he knows me. He knows how to kiss me. I’m a fussy kisser but he’s good. Whatever I wasn’t feeling sexually with his little premature show is now yanking me along by the, well, the balls. Ovaries. He could do anything at this point to me and I wouldn’t care. And he’s just kissing me. I am completely at his mercy. I think mostly it’s his nerve, his control and tenderness that get to me.

 

He takes me very gently by the hand and helps me get dressed. He’s pointing to my stocking and saying something in Italian, God only knows how I understood. So before I know it, we’re off in a cab again and we go to a boutique in the expensive part of town. This sales woman asks me what weave I would like for my stay ups. What weave? We’d be lucky to get more than beige, white and black here in Canada and long enough to fit me, but she’s offering me different weaves, for God’s sake. I’m in heaven! My guy buys me like, 50 pair and then we’re back in another taxi. He gently removes my ripped stocking. He puts his hand between my legs and tenderly wipes his come off with the stocking and puts it in his pocket.

 

So now, we’re in front of this very medieval looking building. There’s quite a few of them there, these gargoyles hanging over you all the time, and statues and the engravings on everything. Think Anne Rice and Lestat, the vampire and all that. I mean, it’s like that all over Europe and the thing about Germany, is that everything is so clean. They’re very precise in everything they do and that includes cleaning. Indoors, outdoors, everywhere.  Anyway, this guy must have been married because this apartment is not furnished, except for the bedroom, which is not really furnished exactly. It’s, well, how should I put this? It’s equipped.

 

It’s got a huge bed in the middle of this huge bedroom and a few other pieces of furniture around. Like this horsey looking thing with no head, just four legs and a padded center part. The legs have padded straps at the bottom. You don’t have to think very hard to figure out what it’s for. And then there’s this other chair, with the center of the seat cut out for, um, easy access, I suppose. I notice there’s a small cushion underneath it, so I’m guessing that will be for my knees, judging from how he’s been with me so far. And then the things that really get me are the pulleys and straps hanging from the ceiling and one of the walls. This is some serious bondage stuff. I mean, hey, I’m 21 and have never seen this stuff, but I’ve heard those stories about Marquis De Sade and that kind of thing. I’m freaking at this point.”

 

“My God, why didn’t you run?” Carol is mortified.

 

I love Carol for always playing a sort of surrogate mother to me. She feels someone should warn me, still, of the dangers of love in all its forms. She’s older than me by 12 years, so I allow her these concerns. Sometimes, I’m secretly grateful for them. I feel mothered and it’s a given that I will turn to her when I feel a little small and lost. I run to Carol when I’ve had an unpleasant epiphany, much like I ran to my mother with scrapped knees from falling off my bicycle, except now the life consequences are not just running out of band-aids. Carol has, so far, not run out of things for me. She’s a sage, a wise woman and a good friend.

 

“Well, sometimes I wonder why I didn’t run. But it was probably a mix of ignorance and paralysis, the result of growing up un-empowered. And I was so brazen, to cover up my fear. A lot of people simply thought I was older than my years because of it. I’m sure this guy never would have guessed I was only 21.”

 

“Come on, what did he do with all that bondage stuff?” Julie is now very tipsy and talking a little louder than I would like.

 

“He proceeded to strap me down on the horse and whip me.” I say.

 

Julie gasps, then whoops, then claps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes are like saucers.

 

“He alternates between whipping and caressing me. He takes me down from there and puts me upside down above the bed, hanging by my ankles, with my wrists bound as well and my arms stretched out wide. I am completely helpless. He disappears and comes back with a bowl of warm water, soap and a straight razor. He was quick to reassure me he would not use it to hurt me. He proceeds to shave me. Yes, ‘down there’ and does quite a thorough job of it too. All the while, he’s amusing himself by pinching me here and slapping me there, to see my flesh wobble and wiggle. He likes the way my breasts quiver when he slaps them.

 

And just before it gets very uncomfortable, he takes me down. He points me toward the bathroom and instructs me to use the bidet and the enema bag. I’m positively mortified at that one! I know exactly what he wants, I’ve heard of this before, but now I’m blushing so deeply, I can’t imagine it will feel good. I’m so tense. So naïve.

 

When I return from the bathroom, he lays me down on my side on the bed, my body propped up by a few pillows. Then he binds me in a very long rope, with my knees tucked up to my chest and my arms behind my back. He leaves my only my head and my ass exposed.

 

He pries open my pussy and lingers there, simply looking at it. I am motionless, unable to see him but I know he is hard and wants to fuck me. I feel strangely disconnected from my pussy, as if it exists without me. It is a needful thing and I wish it to be filled. Finally, he plunges in. He fucks me a little and I’m in heaven, His cock fills me perfectly. I’m so wet, he’s slid in with ease. Just as I feel I’m on the verge, he stops and moves up to my mouth, forcing me to suck him, then back down again, and so on. And just when I think this game will end soon, he begins to play with my ass. I’m too shocked to make a sound. He tongues me there, he pries me open a little, tongues me some more. He licks me from stem to stern, over and over again, until the warmth of his tongue has relaxed me. And then he’s up on his knees again, and puts the tip of his cock at my ass and pushes just the head in. I’ve been so drunk on his tongue, I’ve not even had a chance to protest this in my mind. Despite the ropes around me, I find myself trying to push back onto him, forcing more of him inside of me. We do this for a while until finally, he’s buried in my ass to the hilt and I’m totally high on this new sensation.  He pulls out a bit and moves gently back and forth, with so much control, I find I want more. But he won’t give me more. He just keeps up this slow pace of a few inches going in and out, in and out. It’s maddening. So, I begin to moan and buck as much as I can underneath him. He pulls out and fucks my pussy again, now leaving me to yearn for him in my ass. Back and forth he goes. I’m not sure which orifice has more sensation and my whole body is convulsing. I receive him wherever he wishes now and my pleasure makes no distinction between pussy, my ass and my mouth. 

 

Then he stands and bends over me, holds his hand over my mouth and I play along, whimpering under his hand. He’s looking right into my eyes. He is not elsewhere but looking right through me. He unwraps me, alternating hands, one covering my mouth, the other working with the rope. Then he delights in putting me on all fours and shoving my head into a pillow and with his face between my legs, from behind, wraps his arms under and around my hips so that his hands come to the small of my back, where he grips me tight. Except for my head and arms, I am pinned there, unable to move. He licks me all over and doesn’t linger anywhere long enough for me to come.  It’s wonderful torture.

 

I’m bounced from one apparatus to another for hours, all the while, release for him and me is put off again and again, just as things near the point of no return. He seems instinctively to know where the brink is for me. Looking back now, it baffles me that he was such an artist at this. How many lovers have I had since, who are still searching for my clitoris!

 

I begin to tire of being bound up, tied down, blindfolded, poked, probed and prodded. I don’t even really feel the need to come, I’m so tired. My mind is wiped clean. My body is limp. But he’s not done yet. He lays me down on the bed, ever so gently and begins kissing me, stroking my hair. And for the first time since we began this game, he’s talking. He’s calling me his ‘Baby’, ‘You’re my baby’ he says. He’s looking into my eyes and is startlingly gentle. We make love, with no hint of S&M, nothing like before.

 

By the time I come, I’m under him in ordinary missionary style, with him shifted slightly to the side and holding my face with his beautiful hands while he thrusts into me, gently and deeply. He holds that last thrust in me, going as deep as he can, while I pulse around his cock and writhe underneath him. He is as tender as any man who has known and loved me for a long time. I have no-where to hide. For the first time in my life, I feel completely connected to another human while I have a mind-blowing orgasm with him asking me to look at him all the while. Locking eyes with him while I come makes me feel spiritually exposed, not embarrassed exactly, just naked, in the real sense of the word. I feel innocent too, like this is the first man I’ve ever had. I’m shaking and crying. I am drained. Then he allows himself an orgasm that is long and deep and lets out a moan, very animal, like a growl really. It gives me goose bumps when I think of it. I remember the tone of his voice still. I don’t know how long we lay there, but there was no uncomfortable silence, no hurry to leave each other’s company. Finally, he gets me dressed and sends me off at dawn in a cab.”

 

“Oh my god, that sounds incredible. You are so lucky.” Carol says.

 

“Yeah? I think it’s one of those things that I wished I’d never lived.” I say.

 

“Why? ”  Julie says.

 

“Because once you’ve had someone read you like that and look at you that way and have looked into their eyes while you’re at your most vulnerable, you will never recover. You’re spoiled for life. That was a man I could respect. No one has come close since and I find myself searching for that kind of moxy in a man in this country that doesn’t celebrate maleness. Men are not comfortable with all their desires and women never let them forget it here. I felt loved and taken, enjoyed and spoiled. It’s a terrible thing to close your eyes to every man since and imagine it’s Him. Sometimes I feel robbed of all that should have come after him. I tell you, if I ever find a man like that again, I will never let go.”


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