Strictly Susan
The Second Collection
Smashwords Edition
Susan Strict
Copyright 2006 Susan Strict
Strict Publishing International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Cover artwork by Brendan M Baker
What Was His Name?
She stretched out on the sofa half asleep, sipping from her glass of brandy and enjoying the warm glow it gave her.
She had meant to be doing something else. What was it?
It really seemed too much effort to get up and leave the comfort of her living room.
Ah. Yes. That man tied to her bed.
What was his name? She shook her head as she tried to remember. It wasn’t important, and he could wait a little longer. He did, she thought as she relaxed, have rather a nice body. It was not a very muscular body. It was certainly not a fat body. It was, in fact, just the sort of body that seemed to her to be asking for pain to be applied to it.
She smiled. This was one that she would keep for a while - keep until she tired of him and felt like a change. He had, after all, signed the contract that clearly said he agreed she should dominate and abuse him, with the only stipulation being that she would cause no permanent damage to him. She had no time limit or anything of that sort. It wasn’t her fault, of course, that he had assumed she had meant to restrain him for perhaps an hour or so. It wasn’t her fault that he had thought she only wanted to tie him up and have sex with him.
So there was no rush. She could enjoy the comfort and take her time. He would wait. He had no choice....
The hands on the clock were moving towards midnight before she moved again. Reluctantly she roused herself from the comfort of her living room and slowly climbed the stairs.
She moved quietly, not because she particularly needed or wanted to be quiet, but quite simply because she wanted to go on enjoying the peace of the evening.
There he was. Spread-eagled on his back on her bed, naked, with his wrists and ankles securely fastened to each corner. He was asleep.
Silently she removed her clothes, laying them neatly on a chair as she always did when she prepared herself for bed. She took her long black nightdress from the drawer and slipped it over her head, letting its comfortable silkiness fall about her. It was odd, she thought, how few men seemed to be able to understand how soft feminine things could co-exist with dominance. To her it was most peculiar, that they always expected the leather, the hard shininess of PVC or the resilient grip of rubber. It was positively bizarre from her point of view, that they all seemed to associate softness and beauty with submission and weakness.
She looked at him now, sleeping like a child with a contented expression on his face. It almost seemed a shame to wake him,
As she stood looking at him she ran her hands over herself, enjoying the silky feeling of the nightdress under the touch of her fingers and against her body as she pressed it to her. Yes, it was time to wake him, and time to disturb just a little the peace and the calm of the night. Now she saw him there was a growing need in her, a need that would not go away until she had satisfied it. Left unsatisfied, she knew it would grow into a compulsion that would shout at her from within and demand her attention until she could concentrate on nothing else.
She moved to the side of the bed, and carefully raising her nightdress above her knees she climbed onto the bed and knelt astride him.
Still he slept.
She adjusted her position until her legs were either side of his head, and letting the nightdress fall around him she slowly lowered herself onto his face. As she pressed down onto him she felt him move as he awoke and panicked.
*
How long, she wondered, did it take him to realise what was happening? Which sensation struck him first as he awoke? Was it her thighs pressing on either side of his head? Was it her weight pressing him down into the bed? Was it her soft wetness covering his nose and his mouth? Or was it that, for the moment, he was completely unable to breathe?
Now he struggled. She felt him strain helplessly against the bonds that secured his wrists and ankles. She felt his head trying to turn from side to side against her as he sought for release and for fresh air. She felt his mouth open as he tried to speak, to tell her to get off him, to shout, to scream. No sound came from below her, except a muffled moaning which vibrated through her.
She pressed down harder, rocking back and forth slightly, engulfing his face in her soft flesh as though making him part of her. Her excitement climbed towards its peak, both from the physical sensations of his face under her and from the feeling of power and control that always aroused her. His struggles and his futile attempts to make himself heard only served to increase and enhance her pleasure.
Finally she shuddered in an inwardly explosive climax which sent her head reeling and filled her senses. She slumped down, exhausted, totally oblivious to the man under her and now covering his face completely. She no longer felt his weakening struggles nor the feeble movements of his mouth. Her attention was far from him, deep within herself yet, it seemed to her, in another consciousness altogether.
When at last she raised herself from him, he had stopped moving completely. She bent down, listening, and heard the whisper of his breathing. He was not unconscious. Rather, he looked as though he had given up the will to live. His eyes were glazed, although they flickered and followed her movements as she bent closer to him.
Satisfied, she adjusted her nightdress and climbed from him. She touched his cheek lightly and tenderly before, smiling comfortably to herself, she made her way back down the stairs.
What was his name? She still could not remember, and it was still unimportant. She picked up her half-finished glass of brandy and curled up comfortably on the sofa. The glow inside her was not only from the brandy, nor from the heat of her satisfied passion. It was a glow of contentment, a glow from the knowledge that whenever she wanted she could climb those stairs and once again she could satisfy the urge within her. It was a glow that told her everything was perfect.
Now, what was his name?
* * *
A Woman To Tie You Up?
He had been at her house for about an hour, drinking coffee and chatting about all the mundane subjects they had previously discussed over the Internet.
"So," she said at last, "You once told me you always wanted a woman to tie you up?"
"Errrm," he felt his face going red.
"Come on." Her voice was sharp and enthusiastic. She stood up.
"What?"
"Come upstairs. I want to show you something."
He followed her out of the room and up the stairs. She led the way into her bedroom.
"Look," she said, indicating her bed. Short lengths of cord with a loop at the end of each lay on either side near the top. The other end of the cords disappeared over the edge of the mattress at the top of the bed.
He looked.
"Well?" she asked, "Are you going to let me tie you up then? You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"
"No! Yes. No." He stuttered.
"Come on, it would be fun. I’d love to see what it looks like to have a man tied to my bed."
"You'd crease my shirt."
"Take it off then. That’s simple. Come on...."
Before he had time to think, she was in front of him and unbuttoning his shirt. He did not complain as she led him to the bed and gently pushed him down onto his back. She put the loops of cord over his wrists and pulled them tight before standing up and looking down at him.
He tried to sit up, then realised the other ends of the cords were firmly attached somewhere out of sight under the bed.
She sat on the edge of the bed with an odd smile on her face.
"Go on," she said, "Struggle a bit. See if you can get yourself free."
"I can't," he muttered. "I can't reach the ends of the cords and I can't get my hands together to get the knots undone."
"Oh, good," she replied vaguely, and he realised she was not looking at his face.
"What are you...?" his voiced tailed off as he realised.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" She was looking at the growing bulge in his trousers. She reached out and rested her hand on him.
"Nice," she said thoughtfully. Then "I think we'll have a better look at that."
"Hey!"
"Don't wriggle about." She had undone his belt and unzipped his trousers, pulling them and his pants down to his ankles and then right off. She threw them into the corner of the room.
"Very nice. But keep STILL."
She grabbed one of his ankles in both hands, pulling his leg towards one of the lower corners of the bed. He had not noticed the loops of cords at the bottom of the bed as well. She looped one of them over his foot and tightened it around his ankle, doing the same to his other ankle so that his legs were stretched wide apart. With his four limbs held securely to each of the four corners of the bed and his body outspread and totally exposed, he suddenly felt very vulnerable, and completely helpless.
She stared at him. "You really like this, don't you?"
He made no answer, but she went on, "I expect you'd like me to play with this." She touched his hardness lightly. "Or perhaps," she paused, "You'd really prefer something a little more unusual." She ran her fingernails lightly over him, watching as he squirmed a little.
"Come on, " he said, "We can't do this. Let me go."
She continued as though she hadn't heard him, "But really, you see, it doesn't matter what YOU want. YOU are completely helpless. I can do exactly what I like with you for as long as I like, and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
She gripped his balls in one hand and squeezed.
He gasped. "You bitch."
She actually laughed. "You may regret calling me that," she said. "I had intended to be really nice to you. But now...." she shrugged, "I don't really care."
"Now, " she stood up, "You also once asked me whether I'd ever used that little whip I won at an Ann Summers party. Remember?"
He nodded unhappily.
"The answer was 'no'", she went on, "But I think that now might be a good time to change that!"
As if from nowhere the whip appeared in her hands as she stood beside the bed. She swished it through the air.
"Do you think it would hurt if I hit you with it?" she asked, running it lightly over his chest. "And where do you think would it hurt the most?"
She did not wait for an answer, and swiped at his hardness with the whip – without too much force, but enough to make him yelp.
"So you see," she grinned, "You'll do exactly what I tell you or it will get uncomfortable for you. I’ll make sure you really will be very uncomfortable indeed. So you will be most polite and respectful to me, won't you?"
"Uh yes," he stammered.
"YES, MISTRESS," she shouted, and brought the whip down on him, this time with considerably more force.
"Yes, Mistress," he corrected himself weakly.
"Much better," she said, running her fingers ever so lightly up and down him. "You see, we can make this so enjoyable for you," she paused with her fingers round his manhood gripping gently, "Or we can make it your worst nightmare." She dug her fingernails into him, making him flinch and gasp. "It's really up to you."
* * *
I Want You to Whip Me
“I want you to whip me with a riding crop,” he said. “I want to be gagged and tied. I want you to give me exactly twenty strokes on the buttocks. That’s all.”
“OK,” she said. “Twenty will hurt, you know.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s what I’m paying you for. Exactly twenty, no more and no less.”
He took off his clothes and she tied his wrists up to the top of the cross, and then his ankles to the bottom, legs apart. He faced the wall, his buttocks exposed.
She put a ballgag in his mouth, buckling it securely behind his head. Then she put a loose-fitting hood over his head – she really didn’t like to look at her clients, and his instructions were quite precise so she had no need to watch his face.
She raised the riding crop and brought it down on his buttocks with a pleasing swish and crack against his skin. A slightly raised red line appeared.
She raised it again and counted out the strokes as she hit him, “…eighteen, nineteen, twenty.” Finished.
The doorbell rang. She left him where he was and went to answer it.
It was her friend, Sarah. “Hi,” Sarah said, “Hope I wasn’t disturbing you with a client.”
“No,” she replied, “I’ve someone in, but he can wait a while.”
“What’s he in for?”
“Twenty strokes with the crop. Simple, really. No complications.”
“Want me to do it?”
“If you like. I’ll make the tea.”
She busied herself in the kitchen while Sarah found the riding crop and gave the client twenty hard strokes with it. Raised red welts were appearing across his buttocks and bruising spread from them.
“All done,” she announced.
“Thanks, Sarah. Saved me the effort of doing it myself.”
The two women sat, chatting, over a cup of tea and then Sarah left.
Who was the client still tied up to the cross? She tried to remember. What was it he wanted? Ah, yes. Twenty strokes with the riding crop.
She picked up the crop and started. Really, his buttocks looked as though he had been whipped very recently. Still, it was not for her to question a client’s instructions. Twenty he asked for, and twenty he would get. She put some effort into it, telling herself she needed to make sure, she he had his money’s worth. Nothing worse than a client complaining she had not hit him hard enough.