Cat is Taken in Hand

All through Friday, the email preys on my mind. Just as it was supposed to. The mix of feelings just gets stronger and more consuming -- and more contradictory. I feel fear with impatience, a cold trepidation with hot arousal…. trust with utter, lost, vulnerability. He knows exactly how to fuck with my mind. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.

And then a weird day. Saturday. My first date with Simon. I meet him for lunch. We get on really well, and love talking with each other. We talk and talk and all of a sudden nine hours have passed and it's time for his last train home. At the station he suddenly pulls me over against the wall and kisses me. He takes me by surprise. And his kiss makes my knees go weak. And of course a week's worth of pent-up arousal and a hundred other responses drive me to kiss him back. I think we both feel a little dazed and restless as he gets on his train.

I'm in my taxi home when I receive a text from Simon. He refers to me as a 'very sensual woman'. Yeah, no shit. No wonder. What woman wouldn't be, after the week I've had?

Later, it is very, VERY difficult for me to resist touching my cunt in bed. To be mouth-kissed by a passionate man when already in a high state of expectation and arousal from a week's build-up… if the Dom could see me now, I know he'd be proud of my restraint and self-control… I hope he would be.

The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.

One more night and then he will be here. The safe word is HELICOPTER.

I wake to the alarm clock, from a dream. In my dream, I am stuck in the middle of The Strand in London, surrounded by cars, and by motorbikes -- couriers - weaving in and out. I need to get to the pavement. I feel scared. I don't know how I got into this position and I don't know how to get out of it but I am confused and scared and it's noisy and I realise I can't see the pavement any more -- not on either side…all there is now is smelly, hot, noisy, honking traffic, inches from me on all sides. And then more noise. Worse noise. And I look up and it's a helicopter, dropping down a rope ladder to me.

The safe word is HELICOPTER. My mind has been working on this more than I knew. Taking me back to when I worked in central London, and I used to see the air ambulance from my office window, speeding around.

Two things occur to me as I wake up. One: I am probably not now going to forget the safe word (thank god -- one less thing to worry about, maybe). Two: TODAY IS THE DAY.

I spend the day distractedly. Constantly aroused. Tense. Wishing I could pleasure myself, bring myself to orgasm, if only for the stress-relief that that would bring.

I meet a friend for lunch. My mind is only half with my friend as we chat. When I get home I realise I need to park around the corner to allow room for him to park on my drive. Ousted from my own property and denied the convenience of parking near my door. How appropriate.

I keep myself sane by going for a very long, brisk walk. I re-read his email. Check the instructions. I don't want to get anything wrong. I take my laptop into the bedroom and make the initial preparations.

I clear the top of my dressing table. Empty the contents of his toy box onto the bed. I have to sit down for a while and take a few deep breaths as I look at it all. I simply have no idea how I feel at the moment. A mix. The only thing I recognise for sure in that mix is fear.

Carefully, slowly, I set out the contents of the box on my dressing table. I feel like a window-dresser in some kind of obscene department store. One, two, three, four, five… six lengths of red rope, each carefully wound into a neatly-secured loop and laid together on the table. The nipple clamps. No ordinary nipple clamps. Heavy-duty vices with thumb screws, linked by a heavy chain. The black rubber flogger… a hundred thin rubber strands… he's used this on me before. It's capable of a deliciously fluid, cool, teasing caress. And it's capable of a stinging, but superficial, punishment. Is it capable of more? I guess I'll find out later. Next item. The vibrating butt plug. I know he likes to fuck my cunt while that thing is buzzing away deep in my ass. Will he use it tonight? Well, he'll do whatever the fuck he wants to do tonight, won't he? That's the whole point of tonight. And that's exactly where my fear is coming from. Deep breath. Next item. The new glass dildo, glistening in the dim light. That thing is capable of a lot, in the right hands… But what about the wrong hands?

I sit down again. Collect myself -- as much as I can, anyway. I look across at the dressing table. There they all are. All laid out. I hope I've done it neatly enough for him.

There's one more item in the box. The blindfold. I leave that on the bed. I'll be wearing it as I sit waiting for him.

Next I get the candles and put them around the room. Some near the bed, some to light up the toys. One on the chest of drawers, where I will put the wine and the glasses.

The scene is half-set. If only I were anywhere near half-ready in my mind.

Another long walk. It does help. Fresh air and some brisk exercise. And something strikes me. For the first time in over a week, I am not feeling aroused. Not at all, in fact. My cunt is dry.

Oh shit. Is this my body telling me to back out? To cancel the whole thing?

My mind is too bound up in this whole thing though. For good or for bad. My mind is NOT going to let my body back out of this, however much fear there is now. I'll see this thing through. I will. I doubt I even have a choice in the matter at this late stage, anyhow.

5. 30 p.m. An hour to go.

I check the fridge. Chilled white wine, and ice in the freezer. I get down my champagne bucket and fill it with ice. Set it on the kitchen counter and go back upstairs.

I get into the shower and I use my Chanel shower gel all over. I wash my hair with it -- twice; his instructions were clear -- my hair must be sweet-smelling or I will be punished. A thought crosses my mind… what if my hair ends up smelling of fear rather than of Chanel No. 5? Well, worrying about that won't help. Quite the opposite.

I blow-dry my hair, spritz myself with perfume. Put on some silk-and-lace black knickers. Check my watch. 5.55 p.m. It's all starting to feel unreal now. It's as if I'm an observer, watching myself going through these preparations. An odd dissociative thing. No doubt a mechanism for coping with the fear. There's still no arousal. Will the arousal come later? Will I be in trouble if it doesn't?

I put on my big, fluffy, comforting dressing gown and pad downstairs to make the final preparations.

Beep beep.

"Your punishment for vetoing the cold shower is to drink a pint of water at 6 p.m. You may not now piss without my permission. Understood?". I reply. "Understood". This is way, way, WAY beyond any kind of situation I ever thought I'd find myself in. I try not to think too hard about the implications. I measure out a pint of water and drink it quickly. It doesn't stop my mouth from being dry with nerves and fear.

And now another text from him. "You will be sitting waiting as instructed at 6.30 p.m.. You will then wait for me."

Not long now. I put the front door on the latch so he can turn the handle and let himself in. I get the wine from the fridge and put it in the champagne bucket, with the now-slick ice-cubes. Carry it upstairs and return to grab two crystal wine glasses. I place them next to the wine, on top of the chest of drawers.

I take the straight-backed chair and place it, facing the chest of drawers, with its back to the door. I place it carefully in the middle of the space. Plenty of room for him to walk around it on all sides. I sit on it. Partly to gather some composure -- or at least try to -- and partly to see what I can see from the chair in the cheval mirror. What I can see is the bed. Somehow that seems appropriate.

I check my watch. Five minutes to go. I go back downstairs. Check that the front door is on the latch. Turn off all the lights except the little dimmed lamp on the hallway table. Pad slowly upstairs. Feel the urge to go for a piss. Tell myself he won't know if I do. Then realise that I'LL know if I do. And I need to be able to look him in the eye (if I ever have the blindfold taken off) and tell him the truth. I don't go for a piss.

I close the bedroom door behind me. Remove my dressing gown. Stand in front of the mirror. Take in the sight of me in only the silk-and-lace knickers. The lace is at the lower part -- it's no use in disguising my totally bare cunt. I'm aware that my cunt is still dry. Not one ounce of arousal.

6.28 p.m.

I sit down on the chair. Put on the blindfold.

And I wait.

And I wait.

As I wait, I realise how noisy my house is. The heating is noisy. Joists creaking as they expand and contract. The water in the radiators making a strange ticking noise. The click of the thermostat as it trips on and off repeatedly. Every noise makes the breath catch in my throat. My back is poker-straight with tension. I try to loosen my neck and shoulders but they don't want to be loosened. I'm too short for this chair, really, The edge of the seat is cutting into the back of my legs.

Maybe I could remove the blindfold and get up and walk around the room a bit, to loosen things and get the circulation flowing again. Check the time, even. I have no idea how long I've been sitting there.

But of course I don't move, and I don't remove the blindfold. What if, in amongst all the noises that are making me jump… what if I didn't recognise the sound of him coming into the house? What if he's just outside the bedroom door, listening and waiting for me to break the rules and move?

Jesus, I need a piss already.

I sit there. And I sit there. Jumping at every creak, every pop, every little natural noise that my house makes.

It feels like an hour has passed. Maybe an hour HAS passed. I hear a car idling outside the house. Then a car door shutting, and the car driving off. My body slumps slightly in the chair, with the relief.

Another ten minutes, or maybe it's another half hour… my body is stiff and tense and tired and I don't think I've ever felt so jumpy. Still no arousal. The only thing growing is my desire for a piss.

And then the sound of a car again. And this time I'm sure I hear it moving slowly on the gravel on my driveway. And then the engine gets cut and a few seconds later a car door opens and then shuts.

And then, unmistakably, the sound of my front door opening and then closing again, with a slam.

In my head I hear the words, screamed. "FUCK. FUCK. THIS IS IT. FUCK".

My heart is beating incredibly loudly. Thumping. Getting faster. I can barely breathe. The safe word is HELICOPTER.

Part Three

For some reason I have been expecting to be made to wait for a while once the front door shuts. Wait at his leisure.

And so it is with rapidly rising panic and what can only be described as terror that I hear the steps coming VERY quickly up the stairs. And -- oh CHRIST -- I can hear a metal clanking noise moving up the stairs too. And far too soon, far too forcefully, the bedroom door opens behind me.

There is a frozen moment. Looking back, it feels like a whole minute. In reality it must have been no more than a second. And, in that frozen moment, every last fibre of my mental and physical concentration goes into forcing myself NOT to move. NOT to cringe. NOT to flinch.

And once that moment is over, I know I have passed some sort of test. I am still. There is no noise in the room. No noise at all. But I sense the presence behind me. Part of me wants to cower forwards, away from the presence. But I stay still. I want to be a good girl. More specifically, I don't want to incur more punishment.

The safe word is HELICOPTER.

I manage to breathe in. It's the first full breath I've managed since the front door opened. I breathe out slowly. My ears are straining. I am concentrating on the presence in the room. I THINK it's still behind me.

And then, loud on the wooden floor, slow, staccato footsteps. Circling me at a short distance. FUCK. A predator circling its prey. FUCK.

My mind is working fast. While trying to force myself to breathe and not to cower or flinch, I experience the blind panic of the cornered victim. And there are words in my head. Breathless, panicked words. "Is it him? It sounds like a man, but is it him? I can't smell anything -- I can't smell his usual smell. What the fuck am I going to do if it isn't him? This is too much. There's only so much fear and stress I can take".

The safe word is HELIPCOPTER.

The presence is behind me again. Silent. Waiting. Watching. I sit totally still. I'm not sure my senses have ever before been so acutely on the alert, on edge, straining.

And then, out of nowhere, and quickly…. a soft touch on the back of my head, moving my hair, and a face is roughly pushed into my scalp and it inhales deeply. I jump. Cringe, but manage not to move away from the touch. And it's over as quickly as it started.

It's lucky I'm sitting down. The act of sniffing me. It seems more animal than human. And it has a very powerful effect on me. In amongst the blind terror and the difficulty breathing, that animal act has given me something. It has given me just a hint, just a suggestion, of arousal.

The footsteps start again. Circle me again. End up in front of me. There is another still silence. And then sudden, overwhelming fright as I hear the LOUD, heavy, metallic, grinding noise coming from a couple of feet directly in front of my head WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?? WHAT THE FUCK?? It sounds like a very, very, heavy chain. The noise stops and my breath freezes in my lungs. My heart is beating fast and almost deafeningly.

I try to steel myself for whatever is about to happen.

And I hear the sound of wine being poured into a glass. And I feel my body slump slightly in the chair with the sudden relief. That metallic sound… it was the ice and the bottle moving against the champagne bucket. I want to laugh. But, relief or no relief, I'm still WAY too scared even to smile, let alone laugh.

More footsteps. They stop close to me, by my side. A rough hand comes out of nowhere and twists my head to the side. Lifts my hair again, and again the animal inhalation at the back of my head. It strikes me -- deep in the gut -- just how vulnerable I am.

And then hot breath near my ear. And a voice.

It's HIS voice.

The relief is indescribable. It's him. It's not some stranger. It's him.

Even though it's his voice, it's different. I realise I haven't heard his voice since long before the first text message ever arrived. And it's different. There is none of the normal gentleness. None of the normal smile in the voice. This voice is his, but it's flat. It's authoritative. It's cold.

"Good. The room is set out as I instructed. The wine is chilled. Sweet-smelling hair. Good".

I tell myself that I can relax a little. And then I feel a hand on my shoulder and the way my body flinches away makes it clear to me that I'm very far from being relaxed.

I try to breathe regularly. Slowly. He moves again until his footsteps stop in front of me. I wait. My head is slightly bowed.

He moves behind me again. One by one, he pulls my hands behind me, behind the back of the chair. And I feel the rope on my skin as he ties my wrists together. The extent of my vulnerability becomes crystal-clear.

Again, footsteps. He stops in front of me and waits. No doubt enjoying the sight of me on the chair, cowed, bound, and at his mercy.

Suddenly I feel his hand under my chin, gently (GENTLY! I didn't expect THAT), gently lifting it so that may face is upturned. And he gently removes the blindfold. I keep my eyes shut. His gentle hand still under my chin, he softly tells me to open my eyes.

In the candle-light, his hand directing my gaze, I look into his face.

He is looking me in the eye, intensely. I can't read the look he is giving me and I want to look away. But I don't. I think I may be punished if I look away. There is a lot of power in his look. I don't look away but I unfocus my eyes. Again I am put in mind of animals. The way a dog will challenge another dog by staring it in the eye. The way that one of the two dogs is forced to take on a submissive role, and does so by being the first to look away…

I look away. I lower my eyes.

He moves, and I look up. He takes hold of the wine bottle again. This time I know what that loud noise is, but it still makes me flinch. He pours more wine into the glass. Just the one glass. The other glass sits there untouched.

He stands in front of me. Takes a long, slow draught of wine. Smiles. More to himself than at me. Looks me in the eye again. "Very nice wine, nicely chilled -- well done." Again that authority, that coldness, in his voice.

A word pops into my head. 'Menacing'.

It looks as though the wine is for him, not me. My mouth is so dry. I am so on edge. Why didn't I think to have a glass of booze before he arrived, to take the edge off the nerves? Too late now.

I feel his eyes travelling over my body. It makes me feel like an object. I bow my head.

Again, his gentle fingers under my chin. I look up and see that he is bringing the wine glass to my mouth. He holds the rim against my lips and pours a little into my mouth. Just a little. A small sip. But it feels good - cold and wet - in my bone-dry mouth. Seems a small sip is all I will get. Maybe a good thing. My bladder makes itself felt again. I am getting quite desperate for a piss.

He crouches in front of me, so that his eyes are level with mine. He fixes me in the eye. He talks to me gently.

"When did you last make yourself come?"

I tell the truth. "Last Sunday". And I watch his eyes.

He is not satisfied with my response. He stares me in the eye and waits. With the panic rising again, I search my mind… what have I said wrong? And then it hits me -- I last made myself come on Monday, a day later. It was my reward for having written well.

I blurt it out, now "Sorry," shaking my head. "Last Monday".

He waits a second and then looks deep into my eyes, very seriously. "I believe you".

Three words that are very good to hear, right at that moment.

He leaves me sitting there, tied up, on the chair. He moves over to the bed. I hear the metal clanking noise that I heard earlier when he was coming up the stairs. I turn my head slightly. I can see his back and part of the bed in the mirror. See him pick up two metal poles, one longer than the other.

What are they? Spreader bars? I peer harder into the mirror and he turns his head and catches me watching.

His voice is stern. "What are you looking at?"

Softly, meekly, I say "Nothing", and I turn my head away from the mirror and bow it.

He strides over to the chair. One-handedly pulls and turns it fast, leaving me still tied, still sitting on it, but facing the bed now.

He sits facing me on the bed. Once again, that intense look into my eyes. And he speaks softly but with condescension.

"How many punishments have you incurred in the lead-up to tonight?"

He waits. Stares.

Right at this moment I can barely remember my own address, let alone the litany of my misdemeanours and punishments. I know that if I attempt an answer it is bound to be wrong. So I tell the truth. In a whisper.

"I don't know. I'm sorry".

He reels off the list.

"Two for vetoing the webcam and the cold shower. The cold shower punishment was drinking a pint of water. The other is yet to come. Two for not being attentive enough. One for questioning my methods with the webcam. One for your attitude when I told you you were not to pleasure yourself for a week".