The car pulled up to a building somewhere in the neighborhood. I sat at a distance from him in the backseat. He seemed to pretend I wasn't there. I cautiously peered out through the raindrops to see what this place was like. It was already past midnight, but I felt calm. The master had explained back in the café that the girl had to ask him for a session herself, explained the rules, and the girl, without a second thought, did so. And now she was here. The screeching of brakes, the sound of drips on the roof of the car, and the sound of the door opening. The man walked around the back of the car, opened the door, took off his coat, and covered me with it to keep me dry. I got out of the car without meeting his gaze, and we hurried inside. It was a reception area of sorts, but it was so dim, so intimate. The girl behind the counter smiled at the man, and she clearly recognized him. I shrugged off his coat and hung it over my arm; it was barely wet. And I stepped aside. I looked around the red-and-black room—not exactly cozy, but certainly provocative. Although, who knows. Having finished with the reservation, Sam slapped the key card on the counter, smiled at the girl, turned to me, but he didn’t smile at me. "Ready?" he asked, probably checking if I wanted to escape right now, before it was too late. I just smiled back. I was ready. Ready to step into this bottomless world called BDSM. Approaching the door of the room, I stayed behind him, but I didn't want to examine everything in detail—it was a very exciting experience for me. The first. The door opened, and he, like a true Master, stepped inside, leaving it open so I could think twice about whether I really wanted to go in. I wanted to, but hesitated, I suppose, for the sake of propriety. I carefully clicked the lock and turned to him, still holding his coat in my hands. He was already sitting in the chair, lounging imperiously, his ankle resting on his knee, his hands resting on the armrests. His gaze was predatory, and my desire to belong grew with every second. He was in no hurry to speak or command; he was simply observing. I stood there for a moment, and then curiosity got the better of me. I walked over to a sofa and looked at him questioningly: "Shall I put my coat down?" The manager shook his head, then nodded toward the coat rack. I closed my eyes and lowered my chin: "Understood." It was an intimate encounter. Wordless. Cozy, pleasant. As I walked to the coat rack—just a few steps—I saw a multitude of devices, but only briefly examined them. After hanging my coat, I turned to him, awaiting further instructions. But my gaze lingered on him only briefly: it fell on the glass coffee table next to his chair. There was tobacco and rolling papers lying on it, as if everything had been prepared in advance. I hadn't smoked in a long time. Fuck. "Look at me," he said in a calm, deep tone. I swallowed and returned my gaze to his eyes. Then his hand smoothly lifted from the armrest, and he made a gesture: he raised his hand with his index finger and made a sign in the air—the letter "Z." I could have said I didn't understand the gesture, but I didn't. While browsing forums, I'd seen the hand signals dominants use for their submissives. And the urge to smoke immediately left me. I watched his hand closely, like a cat watching a mouse, and the corner of my lips twitched. And I began to undress. I did it rather hastily from nervousness, my hands were shaking. It was as if I wanted to get it over with. But when I met his gaze, I saw that he was silently saying, "No, take your time." And I calmed down. Taking a deep breath and then exhaling, I turned to him and threw my coat off my shoulders, remaining in a blouse and jeans. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I could see he was holding himself together, but I caught sparks of greed in his eyes. He was having a hard time keeping himself under control; his whole being screamed, "Mine!" and "Mine!" And then I realized who I belonged to—belonged to him completely and utterly, mind and body. The blouse fell after my coat, and I already felt more confident in front of my Master. I slowly pulled off my pants and stepped away from them. Of course, I was no longer wearing panties; I was wearing a bra and knee-highs. I wanted to cover my pubic area with my hands, but the Master, as if anticipating my move, said: - Continue. And I unbuttoned the bodice, which smoothly fell from my shoulders to the floor. And there I was, naked, standing before him in just my knee-high socks, like I was on a catwalk, so defenseless, so bare, but I didn't feel vulnerable. Under his gaze, I felt like I belonged to him. I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I clasped them behind my back. There was no reprimand from the Master; he allowed me to do so. He examined every inch of my body, his gaze wandering over it, assessing his possessions. And I stood meekly at a distance, feeling myself being assessed. “My girl,” he concluded his assessment, saying it in a deliberately affectionate tone. - On your knees. And then my eyes lit up, and I sank to my knees, as if I'd been waiting for this my whole life. The Master smiled at my eagerness: — The slut must smoothly lower herself to her knees before her Master. My breath caught in my throat. He said "Master," meaning he wanted to take me under his collar. But I didn't seem to react outwardly. Sam reached over to the table, picked up some rolling papers, and began rolling a cigarette. I lowered my head and looked at the floor. Another gesture showing who was boss. While he was rolling himself a cigarette, he spoke to me: "I think you know about safe words, but I need to say it. Before we begin..." And then came an excursion into the basics and rules of BDSM. When he finished the lecture, he gestured for me to look at him. The joint was already between his lips, and he lit it. The heavy smell of tobacco filled the room, and I began to breathe much deeper than before. A deep, greedy inhale. Exhale. "See the St. Andrew's Cross?" I immediately looked in his direction. "Clever girl, quick-witted." I thought he'd have to be really stupid to make a mistake, but he must have had his share of accidents. - Go up to him, get to know him, touch him, smell him if you want, and analyze what you feel, what you want. "You can get up." I rose to my feet, much more gracefully and slowly than I had dropped to my knees, and walked up to the cross. I examined it first, without touching it. Then I touched the wood, stroked it, ran my hand over it, and then, for some reason, I actually sniffed it. The scent of the wood, heavy and alluring, filled my lungs. I rested my forehead against it, closed my eyes, and imagined myself chained. And my hands automatically, of their own accord, reached for the shackles. I pulled myself back and left them below. The master stubbed out his cigarette and stood up from his chair. I didn't move. He came close to me and pressed me against the cross with his whole body. He stroked my hair and tucked strands behind my ears from both sides at the same time. His movements were light, pleasant, like a feather... I almost moaned. He ran his fingertips along my neck, then down my back. I breathed raggedly and jerked. He liked it. My sensuality was now at its peak. The Master pressed his whole body against me again. "You want this. You want to be crucified on this cross. You want to be whipped by your Master." His voice was quiet, ingratiating. He wasn't asking, he was asserting. The master took my hand and placed it in the bracelet. Then the same on the other side, then my legs. Oh... How vulnerable I became when he chained me! When I could no longer see him, when I couldn't predict his every move. And he stepped away. Probably to look at his crucified whore, lusting after bukvoeb.run spanking. But he was in no hurry. He took the whip and came within arm's reach. My senses were so heightened that I caught his every movement, despite not being able to see him. But I literally felt everything: every rustle, every movement, every breath of wind, every swing, step, breath! The master touched the whip to my inner thigh and gently moved it from my knee to my crotch, stopping a few centimeters away. I moaned softly. The same on the other side. Then he stroked my thighs, calves, lower back, and back with the whip, and I trembled slightly from his touch. The leather of the whip gently caressed my body. I'll tell you, it turns out the whip isn't just for pain... I began to get wildly aroused. My pussy got wet like it had never gotten wet before, and I began to slowly go crazy with desire. "You smoked in my presence. You knew you had no right to do so, you disobeyed, you whore. You will be punished." I announce 120 lashes to you. You will count each one. Out loud. I was scared. It was a very impressive number, and for a beginner who had never tried anything like this before, it seemed very, very scary. But I knew I had a safe word and a Master who knew his business. I trusted him. - Understood, my Master. “Master,” he cut me off sharply, correcting me, asserting his rights, and struck the first blow. He was not strong, rather affectionate, gentle, loving, kindling a fire. “One,” I began counting. "Good girl." The next blow was just as strong. - Two… And the further it went, the more powerful the blows became, but each one was delivered with immense love and care. A piece of the Master was imbued in each blow, and it wasn't pain, it was bliss. Combined with the arousal—and it didn't subside, but only grew—it brought an immense thrill. And when the series of finishing blows began almost without stopping, I already lost count, not keeping up, and simply went limp, realizing that I no longer belonged to myself. I woke up on the floor. My body ached slightly, but it was nothing compared to what I had experienced. Gradually coming to my senses and focusing my gaze no longer into the distance, but on my Master, I began to come to my senses. And I felt myself being engulfed not by a wave of emotions, but by a literal tsunami, an avalanche. It approached slowly, but grew stronger with each passing second. I began to breathe raggedly, and tears began to well up in my eyes. I rolled over from my back onto my stomach, buried my face in my Master's thighs, and began to cry. Quietly at first, but it didn't let up, and the quiet crying grew to the scale of a frantic sob. I couldn't stop; I pressed myself so desperately into his thighs, trying to bury myself in them. I couldn't control myself at that moment. At that moment, gradually coming to my senses, I was real. For the first time in my life. Real in front of him, real in front of myself. That was the point. He stroked my hair gently, smiled, though I couldn't see it, and said: - That's it, my girl, have a good cry, my darling. I had a blast, my girl... - Yes, I had a blast. This has never happened to me before. Never.