Offered

That was five years ago, I guess. I was twenty-one. My first visit to a BDSM club. We didn’t dive into the lifestyle, but over the years we kept experimenting — always me on the submissive end of things, Carl on the dominant one. We went back to the same club once or twice afterwards. Same crowd, same vibe. We never ran into Shelly and her husband again, which was a shame — her guy had tried to convince us to stay and join them properly. I was tempted, and I could see Carl was interested, but it felt like too much too fast, so we begged off.

These days, when Carl and I get together — dinner, drinks, and more often than not the “more” — it tends to end with light bondage and spanking. He keeps restraints and toys in a drawer at his place, and sometimes, mid-fool-around, he’ll go very still and say something like “get into slave position,” and I’ll stand up and lace my fingers behind my neck without being asked twice. Or he’ll just tell me to strip, and I strip. And when he doesn’t get into master mode, I find myself wanting him to — once in a while I’ll get bratty on purpose, just to provoke him. I honestly can’t tell if I’m driving this dynamic or he is. There’s a pattern to it: he knows exactly what I want, and he only gives it to me when he’s good and ready. It’s a power game. I keep telling myself I’m playing it too.

Which brings me to what this story is actually about — free use, and the private event that opened up a whole new wing of kink for me.

It started a few months back. Carl mentioned, casually, that he’d met a woman on FetLife and thought the three of us should play.

Okay, I thought. Bring it on.

They met for a drink first, to vet each other. It went well: what got discussed was a BDSM threeway with me as the sub. He showed her some pictures he’d taken of me in various states of undress — face visible; he’d asked before sharing, and I’d said yes. Vetting goes both ways. She agreed to the scene. I mean, who can blame her? Carl’s a good-looking guy, and I am pretty hot, lol.

Once I’d told him I was down with the plan, he set a date for her to come to his place.

She was already there when I arrived, drinking a cocktail on the sofa like she owned the deed to the place. Which — credit where due — she kind of did, for the evening.

Mid-thirties, an athletic build. Broad-shouldered, powerful through the arms, the kind of body that comes from actually using it. Short blonde hair. Sharp, pretty features, and green eyes openly amused by everything they landed on, me included. Tight black pants, a black top that put her cleavage on the agenda, and boots with enough heel to put her eye almost level with Carl.

She rose as I came in and extended a hand.

“Mistress Robyn,” she said, and gave me a firm handshake while looking me up and down the way you’d inspect a cut of meat.

Carl motioned me to sit. He seemed a little nervous in her presence, which was new — I filed it away. He poured me a drink.

“And what shall I call you?” she asked, locking onto my gaze.

“Er. Willow, I guess,” I said.

“Slave Willow,” she corrected, with a stern look.

Oh, we’re just going straight into it, then. Fine. I nodded and took the vodka tonic Carl handed me. Then I noticed the zipped bag by her feet. She saw me looking.

“Play things,” she said, with a smirk.

Now, I’m not a demure girl. I run my own business, for fuck’s sake. I was not about to slide automatically into a submissive role for a stranger just because she’d appointed herself mistress.

“Fun!” I said, in a bright, breezy tone I don’t think she was expecting.

“So — what have you two got planned?” The direct question put her off balance for a second, and she glanced over at Carl to answer. He knew I was being bratty, and he knew what to do with me. Something in him clicked — the nerves fell away and bossy-mode Carl stood up in his place.

“You’ll see, won’t you,” he said, with a hint of menace, and added, for effect: “Slave Willow.”

He’d never called me slave before. I won’t pretend I didn’t like the sound of it.

“Assume the slave position,” he barked. My smile faded as I put my drink down, stood, and laced my fingers behind my neck — eyes down, feet shoulder-width apart. I’d worn what he and I agreed on: a simple black cotton dress, black boots. Nothing that would fight back.

While I stood there, Mistress Robyn opened her bag and pulled out a heavy studded leather collar and fastened it around my neck, working the big metal ring around to the nape. Then a pair of sturdy leather cuffs. “Hands behind your back.” No more attitude from me — I was being good now. She cuffed each wrist, clipped them together, and ran a short rope from cuffs to collar ring, drawing my arms up as high as they’d go without hurting.

Shit, I thought. This bitch is serious.

“I can tell you’ve got a bit of a bratty streak, Slave,” she said. My guess was Carl had briefed her. “We may need to do something about that. Now — come here.”

She put a firm arm around my back and walked me to the sofa, sat down in the middle of it, and said, “Lie over my lap.”

Getting there with my hands tied behind me took some doing — Carl steering me by the shoulders — until my hips were settled over her thighs and my face was buried in a cushion, ass up. She pulled me in closer until my butt sat higher than the rest of me. I turned my head to one side so I could breathe.

“Let’s see what we’ve got under here,” Robyn said, and shimmied my dress up my thighs and over my black panties. Fuck, I was getting turned on. Cool air on bare skin will do that.

She made me wait for the first slap — which, I understood even then, was the point. She ran her hands over my thighs and buttocks first, kneading, taking her time, then dragged her fingernails up the backs of my legs, knee to cheek, slow enough that every nerve stood up to watch it go by. I wriggled. That’s when the first slap landed, and a steady rain of them after, until the heat built to a burn and I was certain my skin had gone scarlet. Then she slowed — softer slaps, then rubs, soothing, almost tender, which somehow made the next slap worse.

Behind me I heard the little clicks of Carl’s phone coming out. Our standing agreement on photos and video: fine, and my face stays out of frame unless I’ve said otherwise. I should mention, while we’re on the subject, that this agreement has been very good to me. I love having pictures taken. I have a private folder that’s done a lot of heavy lifting on horny nights.

“Hand me the coconut oil, please, Carl,” she said, and he passed her an open jar. She worked a lump of it into my cheeks in slow circles — cool and slick over burning skin, the relief immediate. I’d never been spanked by a woman before; she plainly knew what she was doing. Then Carl leaned in and held his phone where I could see: my cuffed hands, and my ass — bright red, handprints clearly visible across both cheeks.

I looked really fucking good, actually.

“Now let’s get these off,” Robyn said, and hooked her thumbs into my flimsy underwear and started working them down my legs. I felt her breath — hot, close — on my pussy, and my whole body answered. Carl helped tug the panties off over my boots, and then the boots came off too. I’d spent the afternoon getting ready the way you do before a first date you actually care about — showered, oiled, nails painted, pubic hair trimmed to a neat triangle. Preparation is a form of respect, in my opinion.

So: naked from the waist down, lying over a strange woman’s lap. Another first. I caught myself shifting my weight, just slightly, angling to give her a better view between my legs. Teasing her with a glimpse of my pussy.

Her hands came back to my thighs, working upward slowly, like they had all night, like the destination wasn’t already obvious. I instinctively parted my thighs a little more. Then a fingertip touched the very edge of my labia, and I gasped. It felt obscene, how good it felt. Another finger joined it, circling, drawing it out — until, after an ache of anticipation I genuinely didn’t know I could survive, a thumb pressed down gently on my clit.

My hips jerked hard enough to shift her grip. Her thumb made small, deliberate circles — never quite where I needed it, then exactly there. A soft moan came out of me that I hadn’t authorized. It felt fucking amazing. I was biting the sofa cushion by then, pushing back into her hand as far as the ropes would let me — which wasn’t far. Every inch of give had been measured, and taken away.

Then she slid a finger inside me.

“You’re a wet little slut, aren’t you, Slave?” she said, conversational, like she was commenting on the weather.

I groaned — something like a nod, though it’s hard to nod with your face in a cushion.

“Aren’t you, Slave?” Again, but with menace this time.

“Yes, I am,” I said, quietly.

Wrong answer. Her hand left my pussy entirely, and a hard spank cracked down out of nowhere — pain and shock together, and I yelped.

“You are what?” she demanded.

I was confused. “I’m… very wet?”

Another slap, harder. Fuck, that hurt.

“Try again.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Carl, phone up, filming, grinning like an idiot. The sadist was loving this. And then it clicked — what she actually wanted.

“I’m a very wet slave, Mistress Robyn. I’ve got a very wet pussy, Mistress.”

“There she is,” Robyn said, satisfied, and her hand went back between my legs.

It took me back to the club — the crowd pressed close while Carl spanked me, how soaked I’d been. Some things you learn about yourself fast, and I learned mine that first night.

Robyn worked a second finger into me and kept her thumb moving on my clit. An orgasm started to build — deep, slow, inevitable — my hips grinding against her hand on their own. She felt it coming. Of course she felt it coming. And she stopped.

Bitch. I said it into the cushion, but not quietly enough, and Robyn laughed — a low, delighted sound — and gave me two more hard spanks while I squirmed.

Then she parted my legs wider and spread my buttocks open with both hands — cool air on skin that had no business being aired in company — and Carl moved behind me and took close-ups. He sends me the good ones. I send back ratings.

Robyn held me open with one hand and stretched my pussy lips wide with the other — wide — so Carl could photograph right up inside me. Then he came around to my face, knelt down, and held the phone where I could see.

It was a lot: my red cheeks framing everything, my swollen, glistening cunt held open by her strong fingers, the shine of my arousal catching the light. Gorgeous, and unmistakably mine.

I nearly came just looking at it. I wanted her fingers back inside me so badly it was embarrassing, and I don’t embarrass easily.

“Get up,” she said.

What? No — we were — I wanted more. For fuck’s sake.

Carl lifted my shoulders until I was kneeling, then steadied me up onto my feet. My dress fell back down around my thighs, which turned out to be a temporary situation.

“Let’s get this off her,” Carl said. He untied the rope from my collar and unclipped the cuffs.

“Arms up.”

I raised them. He pulled the dress over my head, unclipped the bra, and I stood there completely naked in front of both of them, flushed from my hairline to my knees, nipples hard, inner thighs slick.

Mistress Robyn looked me over slowly. Not the way Carl looks at me — not hungry, exactly. Assessing. She turned my chin one way, then the other, and walked a slow circle around me. I stood there and let her, breathing hard — its own kind of naked.

My whole body felt lit from inside, flushed and thrumming, every nerve still tuned to her hands. And somewhere underneath the flush, low in my stomach, a coiled and patient certainty: this had only been the beginning.