FIFTEEN MINUTES @Copyright December 2002, Maureen Lycaon. Permission is granted to propagate this story via normal Usenet means (but don't repost it, please; I can do that myself); to include it in the official Web archive for alt.sex.stories.moderated, as well as such Usenet archives as Google; and to retain one hard copy and two electronic files for your own use. If you want your friends to see it, don't email it to them; instead, direct them to my archive (URL below). All other rights reserved under the Berne Convention. Author's notes: this is a consensual BDSM story. If you shouldn't or don't want to be reading such things, don't read this. All characters are fictional, not intended as a real-life guide to BDSM, etc. My story archive is at: http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html FIFTEEN MINUTES By Maureen Lycaon "He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, he is ignorant -- instruct him." -- Part of a Buddhist aphorism Though he was only twenty-eight when I first met him, Morgan was no stranger to harsh play. He'd placed himself in the hands of several good mistresses and two male masters, had been tied and whipped, even flogged with a singletail more than once. He had a pronounced taste for these games, and he could take a lot. Once he had faith in a top, he could easily submit to being restrained, knowing what would happen: that he would be hurt, and hurt a lot -- perhaps enough to make him cry out in pain. Nevertheless, in some ways he was still a fresh, untried novice. He wasn't weighed down with that cynicism that a submissive can get after too many encounters with incompetent tops. And no master or mistress had yet demanded of him that he submit to pain of his own will, without rope or shackle. When he came to me, he was seeking something new, something he hadn't yet done. He knew the basics, and wanted to learn more. Several others in the scene, knowing that he was looking for a domme who could be not only a top but also a true teacher, had recommended me to him. Before our very first session, I laid down a rule. I would never bind him so that he could not escape, except as a *reward*. I would give him nothing, except what he submitted himself to without bonds. The only bondage I would allow him would be the chain of his own will, and that alone would have to suffice while he suffered for me. He hesitated at first, but in the end he consented. As I lead him into the candlelit room, Morgan still seems a trifle skeptical. He looks around, taking in the racks of whips and canes and crops and other tools. In fact, I don't plan to use them, this time. I look at him, admiring the beauty of his lean, hard body, with its narrow hips, belly so flat that it's almost hollow, the long legs. He's naked, of course, except for the leather restraint cuffs I put on his wrists earlier -- mostly for the visual effect. He has lovely long sable- brown hair, nearly black in the candlelight, framing an equally lean face. The short beard and mustache, not much more than stubble, add just a touch of extra masculinity. I stand, waiting without speaking, letting his attention come back to me naturally. Then I look into his eyes. He has the most remarkable deep, pale green eyes. Caution flickers in them, mingling with hope and curiosity. He's waiting to see what I will do . . . wondering if I'm as good as he's heard. "Go to the center of the room, and stay there," I order him. I keep my voice soft, level. Not the sharpness of a military commander like so many male tops use. I like it better knowing that a submissive will obey my softest word. He does so without a word. I walk over to the wall to get the one prop I need. The chain is a big one, perhaps four feet long, with links an inch thick, solid steel. I take it off the hook, walk back to him with it, and lay it down on the floor at his feet, pulling on it so that it lies nearly straight. He looks satisfactorily puzzled -- not afraid -- looking down briefly at the chain, then at me. "Kneel down on it," I tell him. He does so, beginning to kneel down carefully so that the chain is running under his shins. "No," I say, stopping him as he gets one knee down. "Get your knees on the chain, not your shins." The changing expressions on his face are a lovely warm-up pleasure: the puzzlement leaves him, replaced by growing comprehension as he gets down into the proper position. He knows it'll hurt a lot more with his knees on the chain, and he knows now that that's the idea. All skepticism is gone from his eyes now. He obeys without question, shuffling his knees onto it. He winces slightly as he settles down, getting used to the pain, and rests his hands on his thighs. "Stand up on your knees -- spread your legs a bit wider. No, wider still," I instruct. "Now, cross your wrists, behind your back. Yes. That's fine, just like that." I feel the first surge of pleasure in my cunt as I look down at him kneeling there, naked, obedient. His mane of silky dark hair spills down onto his shoulders and chest, reaching just short of his nipples. Between his long thighs, framed by the plentiful bushy hair of his groin, his pale penis hangs limp. His chest moves slowly with his breathing, already a trifle uneven. He gazes back at me, waiting for my next words. "Do you think you can stay there for fifteen minutes like that? Will you bear that, for me?" I ask him softly. After a short pause, he nods. "Yes. I think so." Considered, not an automatic reassurance or a boast. "Fifteen minutes, then." I flick my watch into stopwatch mode and set it. Circling around to stand behind him, I take his wrists in my own hands. Submissive, obedient, he lets me guide them into the position I want. I hold his wrists together, then take a little stout metal clip from my pocket, thread it through the cuffs' D-rings and snap it closed, pinning his hands behind his back. That won't keep him on his knees, of course; he could simply roll off the chain if he really wanted to. It just keeps his hands where they can't obscure my view of his body. Then I step off to the side, to savor his loveliness as he endures this pain for me. And he *is* lovely. The golden light of the candles defines every muscle beautifully, highlights the fine dark hairs on his skin, as he kneels in that submissive position. He lowers his head slightly to keep his gaze on the floor as I watch, and some of that tumble of dark hair falls down around his face, half- obscuring it. I look at him for some time, just enjoying myself, as he kneels there. I know how it feels: that cold metal biting into his knees without relief, digging into his skin, forced into it by the weight of his body. He squirms a little, ever so slightly, shifting in a vain, reflexive attempt to settle himself more comfortably. It hurts more now than he realized when he said "yes"; without distractions, the pain is sinking in. I just have to touch that masculine beauty. I step closer, reach out and run my hand down his shoulder, over that well-muscled back. Already, I can see and feel the beginnings of quivering tension, like steel cables tightening under the skin. He inhales, then breathes out softly. Two minutes. I can really lose myself in staring at him . . . As he keeps his eyes upon the floor, his hair partly conceals his face. I want to see it. I want to see the growing pain reflected in his face. I walk around him to stand in front, then slip my hand under his chin, feeling the short bristly fur of his beard pressing into my fingertips. "No, don't hide your face," I murmur. "Let me see you." With a slight effort -- his neck muscles are starting to tense -- he lifts his head obediently. I feel another warm flush run through my vulva as his gaze meets mine. The pain already shows in those pale eyes and the little stress- lines around them, in the tension in the corners of his jaw. His knees are starting to hurt, really hurt. I lock eyes with him, watching that growing tension, for some time. I only break off to step back and walk around to the side, wanting to admire him from a distance again. He lets his head hang, returning his gaze to the floor. I can glimpse little beads of sweat beginning to form on the skin of his arms. He shifts his weight uncomfortably again, but he doesn't move his knees on the chain; he knows better than that. He's breathing more deeply now, audibly, through his nose. I glance at my stopwatch: it's been four and a half minutes. He must have glimpsed the motion with side vision, at least, but he doesn't ask me how much time is left; he knows better than that, too, and that I won't tell him. He has to depend upon me to watch the time. He takes a deep breath, heaves a sigh, as his pain grows worse. Those metal links must be really digging into his knees now. I can see it in the quivering muscles of his thighs, the way he moves his arms in the restraints, the body's automatic response to pain, the little aborted attempts to escape it. His breathing is getting rough, uneven. I study his penis, still dangling between his wide-spread thighs. It might be a little lifted, perhaps, but he's not really getting hard yet. Seven minutes now, and the real pain is hitting him, rising up into his thighs. It's obvious in the way he breathes, the sweat now gleaming on his skin. His legs quiver, the muscles in his face going taut. He squirms restlessly, striving to keep his knees on the chain. Is he beginning to regret promising me fifteen whole minutes? I step in close, stroking his hair to remind him of my presence and get his attention. "It hurts, doesn't it," I murmur in his ear. "That steel seems to bite into your knees. The ache is climbing up from your knees into your thighs and your groin." He shivers at the words, head lifting a little, breath catching in his throat. "You can't get up. You can do nothing to stop the pain. "Imagine . . ." I whisper, my lips so close to his ear that he could feel me breathing on it if the pain didn't occupy so much of his attention. "Imagine what it would be like if it were more than fifteen minutes." He shudders, his face contorting in a quick flash of agony, a half-formed groan dying in his throat. "Yes. You could be kneeling on that chain for much longer than fifteen minutes, you know. Imagine what it would be like to be bound here, unable to rise, unable to relieve your pain in any way. I'd leave you like this for hours and hours while I leave the house, perhaps shopping, perhaps just taking a long walk. And each time I would think of you, I'd know you were in agony, suffering for me, at my will . . ." Another, more pronounced tremor runs through him as he gasps. I caress his body now, fingers trailing down his damp back, waiting to feel the next shiver directly under my hand. "Imagine not me here, but a male master standing before you . . . making you suck his cock as you kneel there. Slowly, softly, lovingly . . . showing him your devotion, your obedience. You must remain there until you have made him come -- and he is an expert in withholding his pleasure . . ." He actually whimpers then, the iron in him breaking a little. This time, my hand feels the shiver as it passes through his body. The muscles under my hand are steel-taut. I look down between his thighs -- and incredibly, deliciously, he *is* getting hard, his penis stiffened to half-mast. I squat down beside him, reach out one hand, gently palm that warm arousal. Ten minutes gone. His pain is obvious now; his whole body is one tight muscle, growing tighter as I watch, the muscle in his cheek quivering underneath the mask of sweat. Softly, so softly it wouldn't do much on its own, I run one finger along his penis. Gods, I can just imagine what he's feeling. Pleasure . . . pain . . . "You can do nothing," I say softly into his ear again, my warm moist breath blowing gently upon it. The gentleness of my touch, the cruelty of my demand . . . what a delicious contrast this must be for him. I can feel my cunt getting damp. "You can do nothing. You suffer because I wish it, at my will, because I command it. You cannot even think of disobeying me. You can only kneel there, and suffer . . ." A groan breaks from his throat at those words, a prolonged groan of pain -- and pleasure. His head goes back, eyes closed, long hair spilling down his shoulders and his back. He shivers on his knees, the pain filling and passing through his whole body. Gods, what a glorious sight! He's almost all the way hard now, his cock arching up, the tip darkened. I softly trail my fingertips along the underside of that stiffened flesh, making him arch again. His eyelids screw themselves shut as he groans once more, louder this time. A drop of sweat falls to the floor, followed by another. More sweat is running down his flanks and his thighs now. It's such vanilla, really. No whip, no paddle, none of the elaborate paraphernalia that can be used to generate the magic. Just the chain, and a simple command that has become an exquisite torture. Thirteen minutes, seventeen seconds, and he's really in agony now. His breath is strained, tortured, painful just to hear. Sweat drips steadily to the floor, leaving tiny damp puddles on the wooden planks. With each wave of fresh pain, his back arches, and as his head goes back, his face is a study in anguish. Gods, how that chain must hurt . . . perhaps all the more because there is no distraction now, save my fingertips lightly caressing him now and then. Little, involuntary whimpers break from his throat with almost every breath. I run a slow hand down him again, from the nape of his neck underneath the hair, down his spine and the small of his back, down to his tightly-clenched buttocks. His whole body is taut and quivering as he writhes slowly on his knees, struggling to remain obedient, not to cry out. I take away my hand, and the palm is drenched with sweat, the room heavy with the rank, musky smell of it. My mouth goes to his ear again. "Suffer for me, Morgan!" I don't think the jerk of his head that follows is in his control. I draw back as he cries aloud at my words, cries out his agony and his passion, face contorted, eyes screwed shut -- and a single tear trickles from the corner of his eye down his cheek, to lose itself in his beard. The precum drips from the very tip of his cock onto the floorboards, sparkling in the light from the candles. Only when the shock of that beautiful, raw sexuality releases its grip upon me do I check my stopwatch. It's been fifteen minutes. For a moment, I let myself toy with the idea of not telling him, of letting him stay there in his agony, while I play with his rigid cock until he comes. I won't, of course. An orgasm isn't the idea this time. And he has done what I asked: given me fifteen minutes kneeling on the chain. I quickly step behind him, opening the clip that connected the wrist cuffs, releasing his hands from bondage. "Okay, you can get off the chain now." He rolls off the chain to collapse slowly onto his side on the floor, gasping open-mouthed, relief etched clearly on his face. His knees show the vivid dark marks left by the links grinding into the thin flesh there. Pain flashes across his face again as blood returns to the bruised flesh. His erection is slowly subsiding. The pain begins to pass, and he *whews*, wiping his face with one arm. As he relaxes, lying on the floor, I'm all over him, stroking, soothing: "It's over. It's over." I take a moment to unbuckle his wrist cuffs, tossing each one a little ways aside onto the floor as I remove it. There's no way he can get up and walk for a while. I sit down carefully cross-legged and take his head in my lap, letting him rest like that as he comes down. We stay like that together -- him lying quietly, eyes closed, recovering; me looking down at his handsome face and stroking his long, damp hair. His breathing slows, eases. I savor the warm, musky man-smell that rises from his sweaty skin. Finally, he seems almost all the way back. He shakes his head, whews again, says only, "Wow". "Think you can walk now?" I ask. "Yeah . . . I think so." "Come on," I tell him. "Let's go to the bedroom." His legs are so stiff, they're nearly paralyzed. Even trying to straighten them makes him wince. Once he has them back under his control, I move in to help him, taking one hand in mine and guiding him to put his arm around my shoulders. With my help, he slowly and awkwardly manages to get to his feet. A few minutes later, I'm rubbing salve into his knees as he lies on the bed. The imprints of the chain aren't as deep as they looked in the playroom; he has only a few small bruises, but the crimson marks will persist for hours. "How did you feel?" I ask. "You looked like you went deeper than you expected." "Yeah, I sure did." His brows furrow in thought as he considers, then: "Having to control myself like that . . . It was very different. You're right, it's a different thing." He paused; I waited. "In a way, I felt . . . even more helpless than when I'm tied and can't get away. Not as scared . . . but more helpless. More excited, too," and he actually manages a faint grin. I nod, stroking his hair. "Before, you didn't have to *do* anything once the cuffs were buckled. Nothing was asked of you. This *is* different." He wipes his face with one arm again. He's still floating in subspace a little. We stay there together for a while: he, lying comfortably on his back, coming down; I, sitting on the bed beside him, gazing down at his handsome body. There's a lingering faint glistening of sweat on it, which emphasizes the curves and planes of his flesh. He heaves a sigh, and asks me, "How did I do?" "You were wonderful," I answer him honestly. "Just as beautiful as a man can be. I'm proud of you. You stayed on your knees on that chain for the full fifteen minutes, just because I told you to. You should be proud of yourself." I move up to look deeply into his green eyes, and see by their sudden brightening that he understands me. "Would you like to learn more of that, later on?" I ask. "Yes," he says, and the touching little smile that curves his lips echoes my own. I lean over him, and our mouths join in a long, dreamy kiss. I live for feedback. Direct it to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . The URL to my archive is in the author's notes at the top.