But one time when Andre and Nita came over our house to help us put together our own style of D/s, they took us to a place that appalled me at the time -- with something that has just recently crept into our play. They came at a time when we thought we had our D/s life the way we wanted it already. Well, they showed us.
They came over with Nita obediently trailing Andre and toting their toy bag. By then, Eric had developed many of his kneeling rituals, his massage, his service, and I had found how much I liked having him serve me tea, naked, and then kneel at my feet, bowed low, sometimes with his cheek resting on my calf, while I sipped. They lulled us at first by following our lead, though Andre was always stricter and more demanding on Nita than I was on Eric. When we were done, Andre produced a cane and explained that he was going to give us another new "tool" to explore.
“Nita likes to have something to remind her of me, of her surrender to me, when she’s in her element, in the zone–dancing.”
He took over our coffee table and had her lie on it, on a comforter with her legs spread and her feet to the edges of either side and he cuffed each ankle to a table leg; then he explained that he was about to place two or three strokes on each foot, the meaty part, but nevertheless, dangerous. I cringed. Too many bones and veins in the foot. I thought it almost like a death wish for a dancer, someone whose quest for excellence depended on her feet.
"She will have to surrender to the discomfort all week," Andre explained to us proudly.
“Are you ready?” he asked Nita.
“Ready,” she says huskily. She is breathing heavy from the adrenaline rush, part fear, part excitement. Since she is nude, I can see her belly rise and fall, her breasts shift and settle, the lips of her pussy and the dark slit between them that is so promising suggestive. Her eyes are closed. Andre takes the cane and with a thwak that startles both me and Eric, sharply brings it across the bottom of Nita’s right dancer foot. On impact, her breasts jump. I watch her nipples launch and her pussy clench; and hear her push out something like a “hah!” In the shudders of aftermath, Andre fondles her breasts, rolls them around like dough under his flat palms. He pats her small runway, her pubic mound, and then I see his finger disappear between her pussy lips. His hand opens her curtains and gives us a clear shot at her clitoris. I can't help staring at the sexy folds and wrinkles of her cunt as his fingers disappear into it. Then he presses down on her pubic mound a bit more with the heel of his other hand and she thrusts the bone up into his palm. He pulls his finger out and inspects for her juice. It is there, on his finger. He swipes her own juice along her clit, two quick strokes, and she utters a short cry. He takes that same finger and uses it to pick up the cane. He brings an equal blow across her other foot. Watching this, Eric takes my hand. I can feel how warm he’s become watching all this–he does have a foot fetish after all.
She took three blows on each foot, and by the time Andre was done, the finger that disappeared into her pussy came back out thick with her cream. It was all quite amazing. It seemed brutal. Andre’s tall, brown muscular body, his over-large hands, bearing down on Nita. Taut as it was, her body appeared as the perfect dancer’s ideal: a china doll.At first, I didn’t like the way their scene had influenced Eric. Besides his breathing heavily, I caught him with that dazed look of someone contemplating ecstasy. I thought he was turned on by Nita’s naked pertness, her so-available pussy. The way her breasts trembled helplessly with every stroke to the soles of her feet. Then I thought he wanted to be Andre, to be wielding that cane. And I admit, it gave me a moment of jealousy. But when he put his lips to my ear, he whispered, actually panted, “Would you do that to me someday?”
“What?”
“Maybe not the bottoms of my feet,” he added quickly. “But my thighs,” he nodded to himself as if he’d just invented water. "The backs of my thighs."
"You're crazy."
"I trust you."
"You shouldn't. I don't have a clue what to do. And not during basketball season. No way."
And now… Yes, I can admit it. I'm a true sadist. I fought the admission. At first, when I twisted his nipples or beat his ass, I actually denied to myself that I was enjoying the way he cringed backwards or gave an involuntary gasp. He takes plenty of bruises in a game, so I know he's got a high threshold. But of course, he's got another focus during the game, something other than his pain. Oddly enough, when he's had that rough kind of intense or frustrating game is when he most wants -- in fact, I believe "craves" isn't too strong a word -- a thrashing of some sort at my hands. Like he was about to get now. He toweled off my feet for the final time, and cushioned each towel-wrapped foot in the crook of his neck briefly, nuzzling.
"You gave me resistance earlier."
"I know," he said.
"How can you be of service to me when you won't serve?"
"I wasn't ready. You caught me off guard."
"That's right. But isn't not getting caught off guard what you do? On the court at least. You can change like the wind. But here…"
He was looking at the floor. And I knew I was supposed to cane him now. He wanted it, I could tell, and I would probably enjoy it once I felt the cane in my hand. But I didn't feel ready. And I didn't feel like doing it on his time. "So would you say that now you are on guard?" I asked him.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"If I ask you to talk basketball to me now, will you do so obediently?"
"If that's what you want," he answered quickly.
"I'll tell you what I want. I want to talk to you about your chances for the NBA."
It slipped out, I swear, just escaped past my brain and fell out my lips.
"Don't," he said. His voice sounds disgusted. It was enough to make me want to stop. He knows that about me. But this time, it was like I had some urge to press beyond our usual boundaries.
"Who's the servant and who's the dominant here?" I said to him.
No answer.
"You better decide. Because if we only do what I say when it's convenient for you, when it's something you like, then we don't have an arrangement."
"But why this?" he said and I knew I'd got to him.
"Because you deny me this. Because you shut me out of this."
"I don't shut you out. It's just something I can't … "
"Go on."
He looked me in the eyes for the first time, sighed.
"All right. What do you want to hear from me?"
"I want you to tell me what your chances are for making the NBA."
"Vanessa, I don't have any chances. There's nothing else to it."
"I think you're afraid to go for it."
"It doesn't matter. I should have gone for it 2 years ago, then."
"Joss says there's people sniffing out about you. Even Andre says you could --"
"It's just talk, Vanessa. Just talk."
"Admit you're afraid."
I saw a flash run through his eyes and I thought for a minute he was going to come out of role, call a safeword or just plain walk out.
"Why are you doing this now?" he said.
"That's it," I answered. "If you're going to fight me at every word, let's just end the scene."
[to be continued…]
