Surprise

I wake up slowly, coming aware to my surroundings, but still partially in the world of the dream. There is no presence beside me, but that's not unusual. You get up early most days to make breakfast for the morning people in the house, before leaving for school. I am not a morning person, but with my job I have no need to be. I graduated last year, and my shift at work begins in the afternoon. My alarm hasn't gone off yet, so I know it can't be after ten. I have time. I roll over and enjoy a few more minutes with my centaur stud. I'm still drowsy enough for it to make sense.

I wake up again, with a slight pressure behind my eyes that says I've slept too long. What time is it? I rub my face and sit up, stretching, then catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall. Noon-forty?! I stiffen up, completely conscious in seconds. My head spins to look at the top of the dresser on the far end of the room. My phone alarm should have- Where's my phone?!

I swear internally and crawl to the foot of the bed to get off. Our bedroom is small, so my side is pressed against the wall to take maximum advantage of the floor space. I could more easily climb down from your side, but habit commands me to avoid moving over the place where you would be sleeping.

I flick the light switch. Nothing. Both bulbs have been removed, even the black light that we leave screwed in when the regular one starts to get painfully bright from overuse. The thin gaps between wide strips of blackout paint over our window don't allow very much natural light in, and the navy walls absorb most of it anyway. We both generally find the dark comfortable and calming, but then, I can usually still turn the light on if I need to. Now I can't. I can feel goosebumps forming. Something is not right...

I open the bottom drawer in the dresser and freeze. It's empty. I check the others. They are the same. Where are my clothes?! I swear again, this time out loud. It's been so hot at night lately, and we both took to sleeping naked once we ran out of blankets to remove. I look inside the closet. Your clothes are gone as well. What is going on? Our usually cluttered floor is bare of dirty laundry, unfolded clean laundry, towels, and anything else I could use to cover myself. Even the mattress doesn't have so much as a sheet on it.

I go over to your computer, praying you have your chat up so I can message your sister to come over and look in the laundry room for me. You're logged out. The password has been changed. Shit. I check all the drawers again out of sheer desperation, the litany in my mind growing in length and obscenity.

Eventually I resign myself to wait in the room until you get home, hoping against hope that today is one of the days where you have time to come home for lunch between school and work. If not, I'll have to call my boss in the morning to apologize for not showing up today. My phone is gone, my clothes are gone, and I've had a housemate randomly get home just in time to see me streak for cover too many times to be willing to risk a search. I turn scarlet at the humiliating memories, but the situation has another effect on me as well. One I would be damned to ever admit to anyone.

I pull my dream journal from its hiding place in the box spring. Something itches at the back of my mind when I notice the lock isn't there, but I brush it off. I probably just forgot again. No one knows where I keep my journal or knows what I write in it, so it can't be anything else. I flip to the latest page, glance over yesterday's entry with a small smile, then begin to write down the latest fantasy my subconscious has revealed to me.

It began as most of my dreams do: in a mass of sheer insanity. If I remember correctly, this one involved some characters from various nostalgic cartoons trying to take over the world, while I was busy trying to win a kite flying contest on a boat against some bug aliens. Somewhere in the madness, the water I was on became a field, and I got grabbed by a centaur.

He had dark skin that was leathery but soft to the touch. His muscles were well-toned, but not beefy. His hair was wild, and his eyes were like fire. He didn't put me on his back, just held me to his chest. I fought, but wasn't strong enough to make him let me go. As he ran, he held onto my wrists with one hand and bore my weight with his arms. His other hand was free to roam my body, and my clothes started disappearing.

He took me to a village in a forest, where I saw centaurs leading other naked women by leashes attached to collars. My captor told me not to be scared, that a broken woman can't bear children. He wouldn't hurt me. He needed me.

I was taken to a Pocahontas-like longhouse, bare on the inside but for a row of ropes hanging from the rafters. I could see two women tied by the wrists to those ropes. One was hanging upright, with her legs forcibly spread by a stick shackled between her knees; the other was also tied by her ankles so she hung level to the ground, her legs straight up and her openings visible. I was tied rather like the first, standing up with my arms over my head and my feet held apart.

My captor looked at me hungrily, but held himself under control. He ran his hands over me, cupped my breasts, felt between my legs, gauged the size of my hips, pinched my nipples, squeezed my thighs, ran his fingers through my hair... I was pleasing to his sight, and fit to bear a child.

I was taken to another longhouse, this one filled with a row of posts and thin benches that stuck out sideways from the wall. I was made to lie along one bench on my back. My hands were tied to the tall post on one end, and my feet were shackled to the floor at the other end on either side. My captor left.

A human man came in, thin but with chiseled muscles, and he began to oil me up and massage me. He explained to me my place in the centaur camp. That I was a breeding slave. That during the day, I would work like any of the other slaves. Basic chores, easy to complete. But that wasn't my purpose here; it was just something to occupy my time while the sun was up and the men were busy. During the night, an attending male slave would prepare me for my real duties. He would prepare my body, fill it with need, but not give me release. I would be slowly stretched until I could fit a horse-sized rod without breaking. At the end of a time, when I was at the peak of my season, my body would crave so much I wouldn't care who took me to the breeding post, and my instincts would take over so that I would accept any male who mounted me.

My attendant was working on the inside of my thighs when a new centaur burst in. Dapple grey coat, black skin, silver hair. His eyes held a fury that both frightened and excited me. He hadn't had a female in almost a year, and didn't care if I was in season or even prepared for a mating yet. He reared up, shoving the human out of his way, and his front horse legs landed on either side of the bench. He jammed himself into my opening and began to thrust and squeeze and throb inside me. It hurt, and something inside me screamed, but not for it to stop. I didn't want it to stop-

I jump slightly as the door to our bedroom opens and you come in. You drop your backpack on the bed and close the door behind you. I shove my journal under my pillow and start to speak.

"Bill, what on earth-"

"Shut up."

This stops me cold. You have never told me to shut up before. You have never commanded me to do anything. I sometimes wish you would, but you never do. You are too afraid of hurting me, of making me fear you. You don't like my so-called lack of a spine, my immediate reflex to obey and follow behind men.

I have learned the difference between the abuse I received and my internal desires to serve and rely on another human being for both my pleasure and theirs. What was done to me was monstrous, yet it was not the same as a good man dominating a woman. I want to serve, to be given orders. Not because I'm too weak to deserve control, too afraid to disobey. Because I am strong enough to not rebel. Because I trust you enough to willingly give up my control.

But I have been afraid to tell you this. Afraid you would find it abnormal, strange, abhorrent. Afraid you would hug me and tell me it will be alright, that the effects of my trauma will eventually fade. Afraid you, in some way or another, wouldn't be able to accept this part of me that goes deeper than anything I have experienced.

You lock the door and stare me down. "Get on the floor."

I find my voice. "What-"

"NOW."

I do as you say, watching you with apprehension. You begin to undo your belt, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"Back up." I crawl backwards, still staring up at you with mixed shock and excitement. "Lie down." I do. "On your stomach." I roll over. You straddle my upper back. Pull my hands together and forward. Use your belt to tie my wrists to your desk chair.

"You haven't been honest with me."

"W-what?" I stutter, then yelp quietly in surprise as a wide hand makes stinging contact with my bottom. You spank me twice more before moving backward. I try to turn my head to see what you're doing, but a sleep mask slides over my eyes. I flail my head more, trying to hear what's going on. I feel you stand and move away. Hear a short zipper run. There's a rustling. Another zipper, a long one. More rustling. The carpet smells of cat litter and clothes worn too many days in a row by someone in need of a shower. Silence. I can't find you. Where are you?

Suddenly, you're straddling me again. Musky, hairy skin against mine, both of us pale and smooth from a life indoors. Your pants are gone. Your socked feet hold my thighs together, your knees hold my hips in place. Something fleshy brushes the small gap just below my cheeks, and I shiver. Another smack to my rear. You move and twist as you reach for something, your shaft rubbing me lightly.

"You haven't been honest with me, my wife." Another shock as several thin lines smack my back. I hear it whistle through the air this time, prepared for the sensation that comes. Pain, but not bad. My mind simultaneously freezes and churns, trying to make sense of what is happening to me. What you are doing to me. When did you get a flogger? Where did you get a flogger? Why would you get a flogger?!

The third strike stings more than all the others combined. You lean down and whisper hotly in my ear. "Is this what you want? For me to spank you when you've been bad, and make you do whatever I want, when I want it? Do you enjoy this?"

I whimper and lift my hips, press myself to you. Yes. This is what I want. This is what I need. Yes! My neck is grabbed firmly as you bear down on me.

"Hold still!" You sit up, and the punishment continues.

I'm getting wet, and you notice. There is a pause in the strikes. A hand reaches down and touches my sacred place. You move your fingers in a circular motion over my folds, toying with me. I pant and try to grind myself against you. Two fingers slide into me as I take another strike to the back. I can't help it, I gasp loudly and arch back.

You shove a balled up sock in my open mouth. It's clean, but dry and fuzzy against my roof and over my tongue. You lay over me. "Careful, my wife. The housemates might hear."

I make a startled sound into the sock, but it's too muffled for either of us to make it out. Not that it matters. You know perfectly well what I meant. The housemates are home already?!

You chuckle darkly. "What would they think, if they knew you were like this?"

I shudder. Consciously, I know they wouldn't care in the slightest. A polyamorous trio with minds that never leave the gutter, they're a generally accepting bunch. But this is too personal. Too much of myself to open up to them about. To open up to anyone about.

You suck on my ear for a moment, feeling my insides, then ask, "What would you do if I let them rent you for a weekend?"

WHAT?!

And that's when you remove your fingers and ram yourself into me as deep as you can go. I scream into the sock, suddenly glad for its presence. You only make it in about half an inch before your staff stops moving forward and instead flexes under the pressure. I am wet, but I'm also tense, and it is enough to make an already difficult entrance nearly impossible. You would never be a porn star, but you are still quite large, while I am very small. It's too tight a fit.

You lay over me again and slowly prod me, applying a bit of gentle pressure before pulling back, then pushing forward again. You start to make tiny amounts of headway. Your whispering starts again.

"When you walk past people on the street, do you think they can tell? Do you think they picture you like this, tied up naked on the floor, being taken from behind?"

You run a finger down my side with a feather-light touch, and I shiver. You lean to the side and rest your weight on your other elbow, so the hand is free to slide under me. I arch my back to give you better reach, but the hand quickly retracts and you sit up. A sharp smack to my backside.

"Hold. Still."

You come back down again, and the prodding becomes more feverish, reaching deeper and rubbing faster. I'm opening up to you. I can't help it. My body isn't giving me a choice. You aren't giving me a choice.

A hand under me, exploring again. Feeling the shapes of my chest, pressed against the floor. Finding the little red nubs and squeezing them. Retreating, moving down my stomach. Playing with my belly button. I shudder. You put a finger in the little pit and give it a sharp tug. I jerk reflexively and gasp. I didn't know that could feel so... Good.

"Naughty." You pull yourself up and away from me, and I squirm and whimper as all feeling of you disappears. Where did you go?

Movement near my hands. Untying them. Are we stopping?? No! I'm sorry! Don't stop! Please! I'm sorry!

Large hands take me by the arms and roll me onto my back. Gentle as usual, but firm and completely uninviting to argument or struggle. You retie my wrists once you have me in position. Then you're gone again.

A moment later, something being tied to my right ankle. Something... thin and round, soft but uneven. You pull my foot to the side, lifting and moving it into position as well. Cold metal on my skin. The bed frame? More motion, then the tie goes taut and I can't move my whole leg. I'm stuck with my legs open and my knee bent upwards.

From somewhere in that direction, I hear you speak quietly. "You are naughty, my wife. You need to be tied up, and you need it more than even you realize. You can't even hold still for me without it. You need to be taught a lesson."

I turn my head to the side, point my ear toward you. What are you going to do? I wiggle in anticipation.

Your thick arm wraps around my left leg, lifting the knee and holding me completely still. A trail of kisses up the inside of my thigh, leading toward my center. I tilt my head back and raise my chin, eyes closed beneath the mask in readiness, but you pass the place by and continue on up the other leg. Static tingling as your lips touch my skin. I can feel myself leaking, and the rim of my opening spasms as it alternately relaxes and tenses back up again at your teasing. I need something in me, soon. Please...

I whimper into the sock and try to buck, to tell you what I need. Your free hand grips my pelvis and holds me down. You continue to tease me for an unfathomable amount of time. Seconds? Hours? Just when I think I can't take it anymore, you pull up and disappear again. But not for long.

You position yourself between my legs, and before I register what's happening, you bury yourself within me. All the way. I groan. Godsssssss...

You remain still for a moment to give me time to adjust, then start pumping. Slow, tantalizing at first. Then you build up speed. More whispers, hoarse, but riddled with emotion.

"You are mine. I want you. And I want all of you, not just the same mask you show everybody else. I don't give a shit what anybody else thinks, this is who you are. There's nothing wrong with you."

It's a good thing this gag is here. I don't have to worry about finding a way to answer that. My brain may be permanently addled from this... I just try and focus on the feelings. Oh, gods, the feelings...

When you are ready, you plunge down, holding yourself deep, and start running your teeth over my shoulder at the base of my neck. I'm suddenly paralyzed. Everything goes tight and inflexible, and I can feel you pulse and grow inside me as every cell in my body becomes supersensitive. We both release at the same time, and I collapse beneath you.

You pull out and I emit a short cry against the fabric in my mouth; you say nothing about it. We both are familiar with the level of pain that even the slightest touch can incur once I'm done. I've always been uneasy about sex because of the pain involved. It makes me tense up in a bad way in anticipation, taking longer for us both to have any enjoyment, and usually I make you stop before either of us is satisfied.

This time, though... This time it doesn't bother me as much. It still hurts, but I'm not afraid anymore. You didn't give me a choice, and I accepted it. I couldn't change it, so I just let myself enjoy it.

I lie still and silent as you remove the gag and untie my wrists and ankle. You tenderly pick me up. I wince at your touch, but press my face into your sweat-soaked shirt and wrap my arms around your neck. You move me to the bed, take a moment to finish undressing, then curl up around me. Protective. Possessive.

Something pokes at me somewhere in my mind, something important... But I close my eyes and ignore it. We cuddle, just like we always do, but something is different this time. Something about us has changed.

I like it.