Thinking now of Steve, whom she hadn't thought of in years, she remembered his hot wet tongue on her ass, and wondered if today she would still push him away. Probably. Yet Paul wanted her to go into an adult bookstore, which in itself was embarrassing enough, and buy a butt plug – and use it on herself. He told her to get some lubricant and press that little plug up into her asshole. While she was doing that, she was to remind herself whose ass it was. Not hers, but his, to do with as he pleased. Today it pleased him to have her debase herself in this manner. Erotic humiliation, he called it. Just the words made her shiver.
Once it was in, she was to wear it all day at the bank. When she got home, she could take it out, then he wanted a full report.
Tracy entered the adult boutique in a seedier part of downtown, feeling a little anxious about being there. Certainly she wouldn't see anyone she knew. Nonetheless, she glanced around furtively as she entered the dingy little shop, which was called the Pink Pussy Cat Boutique and promised hours of exotic pleasure for the adventurous.
As she opened the door, a little bell jingled halfheartedly. A bored looking middle-aged man stared at her indifferently as she entered. He looked back down at his slick magazine, leaving her to take in the place without being disturbed. Mercifully, the room seemed to be empty of other customers. There was a large magazine rack in the center of the poorly lit room, filled from top to bottom with 'girlie magazines' sporting women with impossibly huge breasts, leering lasciviously at the camera.
Along a few sagging shelves were items guaranteed to enhance a couple's sex life, including a variety of dildos and vibrators. They were made from metal and rubber, some shaped like silver bullets, others of a soft flesh colored rubber pressed into the shape of a real penis, complete with its own set of balls. There were oils and lotions designed to delay, or induce orgasm, and various bits of feather, lace and underwire that passed as lingerie.
There were also black leather dog collars with metal studs, and leashes. A few poorly made whips hung along the wall. It wasn't much, but Tracy took it all in, eyes wide, fingers twitching nervously against her shoulder bag. The collars and whips drew her eye again and again, as did the bright red ball gag tied around the head of a wig stand dummy.
The clerk chose that moment to harrumph loudly, as if to ask her what her business was. She jumped a little, disconcerted, and refocused on the task at hand. Stepping nearer the dildo display, she found what she was looking for. There was an array of anal plugs, ranging in size from several fingers to flat out huge. Tracy picked up the smallest one. It was made of a very hard rubber, and was encased in plastic shrink-wrap. It was narrow at the top and widened at the base, flaring out with a little circle of rubber to keep it in, she supposed.
She was to buy this and use it on herself? No fucking way, part of her said, but not the submissive part. Not the masochistic part that was secretly, wildly eager to try this new erotic torture upon herself. Glancing at her watch, she realized she had to get back to work. Tracy hurried to the counter, placing the curious little item on it as she dug into her purse for the cash.
The clerk attempted to make eye contact with her, but Tracy wasn't having any. She was embarrassed enough without seeing his leer. She could smell the stale odor of dried sweat and cigarette smoke wafting from him. He rang up the purchase and put it in a little brown paper bag for her. His fingers grazed her palm as he gave her the change, and Tracy had to keep herself from shuddering with disgust.
The next morning, after Kyle had left, as Tracy was doing her makeup and getting ready for work, she took out the little item she had hidden in her tampon stash. Smearing it with copious amounts of lubricant, she knelt on her little bath rug, the lower half of her body naked, and gingerly touched the hard cold rubber to her asshole.
Pressing gently, she felt the head of it pop in. It hurt a little, but not terribly, and she pressed harder. As the widening phallus was pressed home, the pressure of it increased. The last bit made her cry out in real pain, but it was securely in. She had done it. Carefully she stood up, testing that it stayed in place. Turning her back to the mirror, she spread her ass cheeks, looking at the little black circle of rubber that was all that could be seen. The rest of it was firmly embedded in her ass.
A lovely sensation of submissive desire settled over her and Tracy knelt to do her morning ritual, whispering aloud to Paul, to her master. 'These are your eyes, my master. These are your breasts, your nipples. This is your cunt. This is your ass. I exist to serve you, Paul. I am your slave.'
She wrote a little essay for Paul that evening, about the heightened sensations she had experienced all day, keenly aware of the little phallus in her rectum that physically reminded her of her 'status' as his slave girl. She had found it difficult to concentrate, and had gone to the bathroom briefly to rub herself to a quick orgasm, as she explained, just to take the edge off. She hoped that was ok, since Paul hadn't expressly said she couldn't touch herself.
She'd been so hot and bothered, even though she didn't really like the invasive feel of the plug. She had to be very cautious how she sat, so it wouldn't move uncomfortably inside her ass. Despite that, she'd loved the idea of 'erotic discomfort' Paul had described for her, which she was now experiencing.
Sometimes when they talked, he encouraged her to go back in her life; to remember the earliest erotic fantasies she had had. Did they always center on submission, on a loss of control and erotic suffering? She recalled things she had thought forgotten, packed away like childhood toys and puzzles.
Tracy recalled an image of herself as a six-year-old girl, running, squealing gleefully across the playground, chased by a blond haired boy, whose name was long erased from her memory. But memories of the game they played remained. It was a wonderful game, where the little boys chased the little girls until they caught them. Then the girls were taken behind home plate, which was protected by a chain link fence. Behind the fence were long hanging vines, which the boys seized and pretended to whip the girls, who were their prisoners.
Of course the girls would giggle and squeal in mock protest, and then 'escape', only to be rounded up again. For Tracy, the play wasn't just fun; it was intensely, wildly exciting. She wasn't mature enough to understand its sexual undertones, but for her, they were certainly there. While the other children soon tired of the game, Tracy could have played it every day.
She remembered an uncle once, playfully wrestling with her. She must have been about seven, as he only visited after Tracy's father had been killed in an airplane accident. This uncle, probably in an effort to cheer her up, was roughhousing with his little niece, and caught her in a headlock with his strong legs. Tracy still remembered the thrill of being caught, of being restrained. She couldn't move, struggle as she would, and he held her that way for quite a while. Finally, she remembered lying quite still, hoping he would 'forget' to release her.
As she grew older, she and her girlfriends had a rich fantasy life, in which they often starred as the 'College Girls in Apartment 1A.' Tracy would invariably attempt to twist the plot of their usual boy meets girl stories to involve someone getting abducted and tied up and forced to do awful things, like kiss their abductor. She could have played those games forever, especially when she got to be the one who was tied up with rope they'd managed to find in a basement or attic.
When Tracy reached the ripe age of 14, and discovered her own blossoming sexuality, nothing was ever the same. Tracy was a solitary sort of girl, since her family had moved so often once her mother remarried to an army man who moved from place to place every year or two and dragged them all with him. So often 'the new girl', Tracy didn't develop many close friendships.
What she did have was books. She had heard of Marquis de Sade, described briefly in some history book as a depraved French philosopher. She was aware that the word sadist, a word that had aroused her when she read its definition in the dictionary, was derived from his name. Not surprisingly, she found nothing by or about him in her school library.
One day, dropped off by her mother to do a research project at the large public library downtown, Tracy forgot about her assignment and went in search of the Marquis. Hidden in the dusty old shelves of little-read scholarly works, Tracy found what she was looking for.
She didn't dare check out the books, but would pore over the collected works, which included extensive passages fromJustine andJuliet, andThe One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom. Tracy skipped past the esoteric rhetoric about the virtue of vice, but lingered, innocent eyes wide, over the explicit passages of torture and debauchery. Even as she was shocked and horrified by some of the more graphic depictions of violent sex and torture, her innocent body felt a rising desire.
Perhaps if she had had a gentler introduction to the potential pleasures and romance of erotic submission, it might have spared her years of self-censure and a feeling that she was secretly depraved, herself.
At any rate, after that first heated afternoon at the downtown library, Tracy poured herself a hot bath and climbed in while it was still filling up. Her head still swimming with images of naked women, bound and brutalized,
