I can see she is nervous. Her eyes are sparking; her laughter is bright, more than normally bright, adrenaline adding half an octave to its pitch.
I understand her nerves. This is her first time in a dungeon, her first real dive into BDSM beyond the occasional foreplay spanking from her partner. She’s come to me, wanting to experience a submissive role play, yet not quite sure what that means.
For the session to work, I need to set its tone early, while her mind still whirls at the strange, unfamiliar surroundings of the dungeon.
“Your job,” I had said to my assistant earlier, “is to get her kneeling in front of me before she realises she has done, or what that act signifies.” The assistant, a submissive who sometimes works with me in these sessions, leads her in and kneels on one of the two cushions in front of my chair, leaving her to take the other alongside her. My slow trace of a finger across her nipples and the kiss that follows are rewards for her kneeling; that matching of her compliance and my reward conveying, I hope, its own subliminal message of dominance and submission.
Yet still she can’t accept my lead, her resistance in her eyes and her actions. Perhaps she’s fighting herself more than me; this is no natural submissive. It’s new to her. She pulls away from my kiss, teasing me to follow her so I can continue it. I pull her back into place by her nipples. A frown drifts across her beautiful face, confused that she has so easily been put in her place.
She laughs a “you can’t be serious!” laugh at the cuffs and collar when I reveal them to her. I can see she’s fighting with the idea of being collared, fighting with the meaning of it. She’s a strong, independent woman, a feminist, a figure in her chosen industry, a home maker. How can she let this man collar her?
She’s also fighting, as she has been all along, to keep this light and on the surface, resisting the darker, more sinister implications of the scene. So she goes for the joke. Noticing that I’m leaning back slightly to bring the collar’s buckle into the focal range of my eyes, she jokes about my age, offering to lean back herself to help me. It earns her a soft slap on her cheek. It’s unexpected, discordant, completely counter to the lightness she’s trying to cling to. Having slapped her cheek, I hold her chin and stare, unsmiling, onto her eyes.
“Stop that!” my look tells her. I see her shock and disbelief at what I’ve done. I see her defiance.
Briefly I wonder if I’ve gone too far, but slowly, like clouds in a breeze, the shock drifts away and is replaced by understanding, by acceptance and yes, finally, by submission.
The first hurdle over, we can begin.
I guide her to the long wooden bench and pick up my leather flogger.
I nearly never write fiction but this was fun. I enjoyed the self imposed challenge of the 500 word limit!
More collard kink here:
I’d love to experience this, with a wise tutor and mentor.
i suspect that like your story character i too would find submißsion a real challenge due to my social conditioning yet with its own reward once i got over myself!
Ohh – I was intrigued by that, drawn in, I wanted to know more. Will there be a part 2 (I hope)
I can imagine her struggle with the concept of the submission – moving it from fantasy to reality. I suspect I’d be rather similar in attitude. Thanks for sharing.