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 Encounter 3: Acton

   Acton lies just off the junction of the 495 freeway loop, bisected by
Massachusetts Route 2.  Rt 2 looks a little different out here to the
center of The Hub which constituted our old stomping grounds.  It was a
chance crossing of schedules which had put us in proximity.  Not the
carefully planned June weekend in San Francisco, or the bizarrely
fortuitous overlap of a week in Manhattan (Kansas) where professional
obligations had landed us both in the heart of flyover country.  No, this
was a grab bag.  I was in-country, yes.  Supposed to be in California,
however last minute changes had forced me back east into the bitter winter
cold.  You were in town on a rather lucrative milk run and had extended
your stay by two days to overlap with a cluster of events, leaving this
particular and otherwise unremarkable Tuesday afternoon graciously unspoken
for.

   At the South Acton Park & Ride Stop the austere iron MBTA works were
grey and menacing in the cold of the early afternoon.  The borrowed cream
colored Corolla I pulled up in had two full lines of City of Cambridge
parking permits, clearly indicating its decade long service in the hands of
a resident of said city.  You were in a chipper mood, but definitely
bordering on a bit bratty.  Confident from the low four figure sum you'd
netted over the past 3 days with Domme Brunhilde in full flower as
educator, performer, and eagerly sought mentor.  She had splurged and was
perched atop where a substantial fraction of those funds had been invested.
Smugly self-satisfied as you saw my eyes catch at the signature red soles
flashing behind black polished leather.  Every single step on the sand
strewn pavement leaving a distinctively consumptive mark upon your soles.
Luxury is for display.  An assertion of status.  If anything they may have
paid for themselves from the raised eyes and earnest referrals at the
fundraising dinner you had orchestrated a few days prior.  Yes, you were
walking on rent money.  Boston level rent money.  And yes, you knew that I
had wanted to indulge you along those lines.  There was sass when we
kissed, mixed in with the passionate fullness of a transient crossing.  A
tension between who you were before and after I was in the immediate
picture.  I gave a perfunctory "hrump" with just a bit of edge, which
niggled in your mind.

   The conversation in the car was chirpy and light.  We only had four
hours before you needed to be returned for the evening's festivities.  A
few twists and turns and we were deep in classic New England countryside.
Robert Frost country.  The bane of a million sophomore high school English
classes.  Stone fences abutting snowdrifts.  The freshly plowed driveway I
turn into leads to a converted barn on a slight rise in the middle of a
field.  For such a densely populated state, the nearest neighbours here
were barren fields and frozen forests.  Certainly a picturesque creek was
hibernating dormant till spring picnicking season awakened it .  The house
of "a friend" was all I'd allow.  The two other times we'd met like this I
had started soft, built up slowly, and spiced in shakes of hard intensity
with a delicate appreciation for subtlety and spacing.  This time was bound
to be different.

   Closing the door to the entryway, obligatory boot bench and peg lined
coat rack only partially populated, I pulled out my phone and conspicuously
set the timer for 3h30m and set it down.  As you were unbuttoning your pea
coat and loosening your scarf you feel me behind you, my arms slide around
your waist.  "Mine" curled into your ear as I pulled you in, and slid my
lips onto your neck.  Kissing you hard.  You squirmed delightfully, trying
to get a way.  "Sir.  You'll give me a hickey.  It will mark." Twisting
your head to try and leverage me off.  The door into the bulk of the house
from the entryway cracked, my boots off, I remark "Exactly" and scoop you
up in my arms, the shedded the coat crumpled on the floor.  I hadn't been
to a gym in years, but all those hours of precision manual labor had their
advantages.

   You wrap your hands around me and kick your fashionably shod feet as I
carry you over the threshold.  Spinning you, the tip of your toe drives the
inner door shut with a satisfying scump of the cleaved weather seal. 
Sealing out the cold fingers of drafty wind and entombing your cast aside
coat on the front entryway floor as clear a warning to future guests as a
sock on a dorm room door handle.  The front of the house we emerge into is
an open plan two-story tribute to south facing glass picture windows and
colonial era bare timber beams.  Centered in front of the five frame
Rockwellian view of a Robert Frost scene is a cast iron pot bellied stove.
Black from use and crackling warmly with a fresh log fire of seasoned maple
and apple wood that I had no doubt started before running out to retrieve
you.  Potpourri aspires to the subtle richness of this aroma.  It reminds
you a touch of tasting Scottish single malt after a lifetime of Jack and
Coke.  Arrayed on the coffee table are coils of thick off white rope, two
wide rolls of red vet-wrap, and a pair of surgical safety sheers.  The
collection leaving no doubt as to my intentions for the afternoon.

   We fool around on the couch, enjoying each other's company and lips, and
touch.  You lose progressive more clothing while I shed relatively little.
I'm being rather aggressive.  Firm.  Assertive.  Almost rough?  Definitely
rough.  I bind your hands together with the vet-wrap behind your back and
set of a frisson within you.  Your top in communion with the floor, and
your bra half slipped off.  I tell you you've been a bad girl.  And bend
you over my knee.  Pulling up your skirt, and down with the panties.  Pale
ass bare in the waning light.  The last time I spanked you, which was also
the first time, it was a drawn-out leisurely affair.  No sin of commision
or omission had been breached by you, other than my arousal.  That was not
the case this time.

   THWACK THWACK THWACK.  Three hard slaps, right in a row.  Not the
teasing pensive waiting game from Kansas.  A pause for a two count, and
then in tempo two more.  THWACK THWACK.  You balk, "What about tonight? 
Sir." the addendum added hastily.  The bratty tinge immediately earning you
another round of THWACK and THWACK.  Very hard.  Jarring.  Stinging.  You
can feel the impulse of the blows jerking you forward.  Rattling you. 
After the shock of the strike comes the burn.  The flushing heat.  There is
no doubt you'll be feeling this on the bench tonight.  It may be a private
event, but I've ensured that my presence will be there fully in spirit. 
The thought has you a feeling a bit put and placed as the residual
fragments of Domme Brunhilde fade into the background and my precious
little slut comes into bloom.

   "Mine" I assert plainly.  "My Property." Your lower lips having ripened
rapidly from slightly to very interested in welcoming a visitor.  Your
panties at your knees I wrap your ankles and calves together.  You wiggle
delightfully as I slip you forward onto the couch, your feet and shoes
dangling high as I unzip and thrust.  Your legs against my chest as you
feel my head centering against your lips before that abrupt push and pull.
This is such a delicious moment.  You'd like to package it and replay it
over and over.  Right before.  Just right before.  You're ready, but only
in theory.  And that theory gets tested by experiment.  And found wanting.
The practical matter of my presence is one which requires physical
compensation.  I'm uncompromising.  And you've just been compromised.  It
nearly knocks the wind out of you as your brain dissolves under the
pressure and reforms around my member.  You've felt The Melt before.  You
knew it was coming.  But it still takes you off guard.  Now you're been
seriously put and placed.

   A series of rapid deep breaths as your mind is swimming trying to
reconnect to some reality.  Your chest heaving, I finger down the cups of
your bra, exposing pert engorged nipples.  Grasping one in each hand. 
Fingering them delicately for two deeply penetrating thrusts, on the second
withdrawal to just the head I pinch down.  Hard.  And push in.  Also Hard.
The squirm and shimmy you've been doing upgrades to a full-on thrash.  An
emphatic Oh God" emerges from your lips and is screaming from your eyes as
I twist the two in, and then tug.  The feeling below is incredibly filling.
Connected.  An extension of me.  An instrument of pleasure and lust.  In
this position I'm rooting you deep.  There is just a hint, on the most
emphatic thrusts of a shockingly jarring pain as I graze your cervix.  Any
time before and it would have been the emergency core shutdown but you're
lit like a junkie on the mix of pleasure and pain I'm feeding you.  That
note might be a bit much in any larger proportion even though there is a
soprano out there clearly screaming her head off for "More" and "Deeper"
and "Fuck Me" along with a murmuring commentary of "I am such a fucking
slut right now how the hell are you this big oh my god this hurts but its
such a fucking turn on being used like the property I am Sir.  Sir oh my
glorious Sir.  I am about to come, I'm really close, very close now, please
let me come Sir please now please?" And with that a thrust out goes to far
and I'm all the way disengaged.  You're gapped, gaping.  Void.  The null
pointer.  Panic races through you as you feel me disentangling myself.  Oh?
No?  No.  No!  No you fucking bastard.  I need to come I need to come so
badly.  I waddle with my raging boner towards the pot bellied stove.  Open
its grated mouth, and pull three poking rods from the fire kit next to it.
I lay the trio across my wrist, business end pointed to you.  They're not
hooks or pokers or tongs or clamps.  They've got bright 18-8 stainless
steel at the end of their wrought iron shafts.  Sharp un-Helvetic serifs. A
"W," and two other letters.  They're there in front of you for just a flash
before I thrust them into the red glowing coals and close the grate most of
the way.  Their memory burned into your brain.

   Returning to you I monologue "Funny thing branding a sexual conquest.  A
woman gets marked like that on a business trip to a far away city.  Comes
back home.  It's surprising how readily the elephant in the room can be
ignored.  For days, weeks, months, even years.  Because some questions are
too uncomfortable to ask.  Even when they're obvious."

   I'm still rock hard.  Slick with your lust.  Crying "I trust you.  I
trusted you.  Please tell me you're not going to do it.  Containment. 
Please Sir.  Think of containment." you buck and wiggle to minimal effect
as I slide you on the brown slick leather couch off to kneeling in front of
the coffee table.  Having kicked one of the lengths of rope through I hook
it behind your knees and secure them through the legs of the coffee table.
Pushing your chest forward I likewise wrap a rope several times around you
and tie you down to the top of the table.  Immobilized, you feel and hear
me shuffle behind you.

   I offer a cruel bargain.  "If you don't come, I won't do it"

   "You filthy bastard.  Red.  Red I tell you Red.  Safeword.  I'm
Safewording out.  Stop this the fuck right now damnit.  This is not
consent. Not any more.  You untie me right now.  I'm done.  I'm through
with you.  Its over.  I'm not you plaything.  Your fucktoy.  To be used
however your perverted mind might see fit.  Listen here buddy.  I'm done.
Its over.  Now.  Hell hath no fury like I'll unleash upon you." But it's
not the real safeword.  I've looked.  Been watching.  Very carefully.  The
thing we'd talked about.  You're not doing it.

   Where-ever my meanderings have taken me I wander back to behind you.  My
hand tracing the red hand prints on your ass that I've recently authored.
You try to kick in response, getting less than half an inch play for your
trouble.

   "Too late" I chuckle as I toy with your slit digitally for a moment,
before centering.  "You're going to come soon." I assert.  You bark out a
"No" which has more lingering indecision in it then when you thought about
the word in your head.  Thrusting in the quiver is delightful as I count
out "Five" and you cry "Rape!" with an unsettling gulp as your lower
quarters disagree on my condemnation.  Another thrust brings "Four" and
then "Three." My hand patting your ass saying "right there, Two" has volume
making up for coherence as "One" delivers the inevitable response as your
Kegels attempt to either milk me dry or force me out as your brain turns to
mush for minutes on end at the harsh intense treatment.  Eyes always locked
on the three handles sticking out from the stove.  Shit.  That son-of-a
bitch made me come.  Your mind shredding between what just occurred and
what's about to occur.  The pieces intermingling like an incomplete
crossword puzzle cut into individual squares and reassembled at 30 degree
angles.  It's not the deeply satisfying post-coital haze of an extended
double digit minute orgasm, but a slice of it, compressed, refolded, and
delivered in a tight space of your mind.

   Multiple loads spent in you.  I lay tenderly on top.  Petting you. 
"Soon now soon" I reassure your scrambled mind.  You mutter a week "no" not
really sure what you're objecting to other than perhaps cast iron or
something related to wood based home heating.  With the better part of me
slipping down your thigh you can feel my spent hardness escape your
confines.  Dick hanging out I wattle back over to the stove and pull out
three glowing irons.  Their ends reddish orange.  "It's time" I announce
wickedly.  Bringing the three behind you enough sense has returned to
garner a full on scream.  Loud and high and clear.  Ear-shattering as you
can make it in this sub optimal position.  But then again, you're being a
near optimal sub while in this position.  This moment will come up the next
time you're practicing your trade, coaxing more from someone who has the
potential for greatness but hasn't yet tasted it.  Maybe you'll say
something, or just allude to it.  First contact catches you completely off
guard.  The strike is electric in its bite.  You can hear the sizzle and
that hissing scorch as the iron catches.  Confusingly the next thing you
can identify is a cold numbness along with the wafting smell of cooking
meat.  You!  Cooked Brunhilde.  The permanent kiss causing a short gap in
the auditory report as your brain overloads.  The next two strikes in rapid
succession as the grilled smell fills the room and your brain rewires
itself to compensate three times in a row.

   He's done it.  My Sir.  No escaping.  Oh my god.  I'm a slave.  He's
marked me as his property.  It will be ok.  I'm his now.  Irreversibly. 
Unquestionably.  Because he will make it ok.  How do I explain it?  I
don't. It doesn't matter.  How is it that I can think this?  "W__" is now
seared into my rear.  All those years ago.  A nice guy.  A nice guy just
nicely scarred me for life with his name.  His name.  Him.  His.  Mmmm. 
This is so beyond the twistedness of getting off on listening to recordings
of him chairing daily status meetings.  I must need help.  But there is
Him. That's maybe better than help.  Leaning down, I kiss you behind the
ear and place a dressing lightly on the wound.  Gently unlayering the
brightly colored self-adhesive MediWrap and snipping the rope clean, you're
in a state of near shock as I tend to you.  Turning you easily I bring you
back to the couch.  There are two plates of food.  Hearty, simple fare. 
Steak, steamers, corn on the cob, and big brown baked potatoes.  How I
managed fresh corn on the cob at this time of year will haunt you days
later, but at present it's completely slipping your mind.  You're a mess.
Completely scrambled.  Eyes not able to focus.  Completely out of context.
You hear the shells of the discarded clams rattle as I plow into the
steamers, dipping them in the common pool of melted butter.

   You've become completely untethered.  Your thought sporadic and
disconnected.  It's not real.  Not really real.  But you know it is.  That
you've been marked.  Claimed.  Labeled.  An assertion has been made.  And a
brief thought as to the etymology of assertion flickers through your mind.

   The pain isn't as bad as you'd feared.  It must be nerve damage.  The
nearest ones seared off.  And then it hits you.  Like the end of The Usual
Suspects.  On the top of the steak I'm slicing into.  There is the usual
grill cross-hash.  But it's also marked.  Three letters.  "W" and two
others.  There is a bowl of dry ice steaming away nearby.  Happily gurgling
in some condensate.  And a case labeled "Nova Violet Wand," and a glass
tube mounted from a handle with a flat metal piece on its end sweating from
the recent cold.  I lean over to kiss you as your eyes range over the items
in question.  I'm taking the kiss.  That sense of complete floating taking
hold as you realise not only did I fuck your body, I've also just fucked
your mind equally as deeply.  Because you're sitting up.  Your rear stings
from the spanking.  Just the spanking.  Not the continued excruciating pain
that actual post branding three third degree burns on your rear would be
provoking.

   I push a fork pronged with a nugget of pink medium-rare steak towards
your lips, crowned with a fragment of the "W." You let it slide in past
your lips, and savor the flavor.

   "Next time, it might not be dry ice and a Violet Wand."

   "That was an incredible few moments.  When I thought you had..."

   "Yes.  I know."

   "I know I'm going to think about that.  Replay it over and over in my
mind."

   "Spend that much on shoes again without my consent and I'll give you a
permanent reminder."

   A shiver runs down your spine, but a bit of brattiness is able to coax
out a soft "promise?" Answered only with a gentle pat on the rear.  Domme
Brunhilde could be in control there.  Would she do that?  Forcing his hand.
For a little while at least.  Would Domme Brunhilde want to go out with a
bang like that?  Or would the mark merely sear her away to just a
professional veneer.  A hollow shell of what's currently rolling through
and interminable internal debate.  The worst part is he's the one who
solidified and clarified her existence.  Domme Brunhilde.  A useful facade.
A necessary means to an end.  Pushing those thoughts to the back of your
mind you embrace that further reinforced sense of protected trust which
provides the foundation to our relationship.  Well that and those
mind-blowing orgasms.

   Basking, cuddling, nuzzling.  Staring idly at the three irons now
resting by the black cast iron pot bellied stove, you admire the pretty
iridescent coloring the heat has brought to the stainless steel.  A kind of
yellowish orange uniform patina on two of the letters.  But one of these
things is not like the other.  "One of these things is not the same" rolls
through you head in a Sesame Street flashback.  The complex technicolor
stratification on the "W" is definitely not the same.  You notice the wood
on the handle is a little darker and more seasoned.  This activity was
sponsored by the letter W.  W for William.  William has struck before.  Who
is wandering around with a never ending W kiss on her?  Or is it more than
one?  The colorful outlines on that piece of stainless hint to a volume of
stories.  You turn your head and snuggle in close, safe from the cold, and
some of scary things that lurk in the imposing grey dusk of a New England
winter afternoon.  And then you hear the shrill muffled trill of my phone's
alarm going off.

   Dropped off for the train back in, you're just a bit uncomfortable
sitting on the train's padded seats.  Three hours from now you'll be on a
hard wooden bench.  Trying to concentrate on your concert.  Wondering what
you would do if you saw someone marked with that W.  Knowing today is not
the day you'll walk into a snooty upscale boutique and do something stupid.
Buy something marked up 99% over its cost to manufacture.  A bauble of
arrogance and extravagance.  And tomorrow is probably not that day.  But
every day, that probability accumulates.  Never decreasing.  And someday.
Well someday it's likely the odds will catch up with you.  And until that
day, there is always savoring the memory of the moments when it was that
day.  Even if only for a brief moment.

   ...

   As the train passed into Waltham and the twilight faded to the early
night of northern winter your mind rolls back through that sense of
complete release and catches on the smell.  That sizzling smell which was
actually steak.  But for the briefest of moments could have been you.  It
opens a dark door in your mind.  Feeling yourself at the threshold, held by
your Sir, at the edge.  Dangling.  Of what you would do.  Without
hesitation.  The utter clarity in your trust of me as your only protection.
The maximum contrast, as none could be greater.  That atomically sharp
edge. It seeds a warmth within you.  Lyrics to The Ninth, in my rich voice
seep in over the clanging report of the bordering bell and the throaty
diesel din of the commuter rail engine re-engaging its traction.  Freude,
schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium.  The pronunciations more crisp
than when it had risen unprovoked from me after our first time, only to be
cut off by the commencement of our first second round.

   At North Station you switched to the Green line and back to
civilization. A niggling feeling like you had forgotten an errand
in-between as you stepped off the trolley passed almost without comment and
proceeded to the stately mansion where the evening's fundraising reception
was being held.  Your group performed brilliantly and the compliments
afterwards were profuse.  Radiant.  Glowing.  Impassioned.  Vibrant.  The
hostess plying you with a healthy trade in mineral water, mini kosher dill
pickles, and spiraled slices of bright pink wagyu beef double folded on
toothpicks as you were rotated through the sponsors, waving off waiters
proffering gem toned tranches of tuna and salmon nigiri.  A senior
matriarch with a twinkle in her eye emphatic about the board being more
than willing to accommodate any demands on your schedule.

   Exhausted but satisfied by the day's events it wasn't till you woke the
next day that you realized what you had forgotten at North Station.  Other
than rosy cheeks from the biting wind, you hadn't freshened up before the
party.  Not a smidge of makeup.  All those very done up ladies last night,
so complimentary about your looks.  It perturbed you slightly.  The next
day, later on the plane, lifting off into the bright sunshine above the
cloud level, heading home, your hand resting casually against your stomach.
The grandmotherly woman seated next to you noticing and looking up to give
you a warm knowing smile.  Puzzlement flashes across your mind and then The
Math rushes in.  Its basic counting.  Simple.  Easy.  Even a child could do
it.  Even a...  oh...oh my.  Oh Sir.

  
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Copyright (C) 2016.  Written by William.  Inspired by his muse, Meine
Liebling Brunhilde.  Find more at verydirtystorytime.tumblr.com

   Creative Commons 4.0 CC BY-NC.  Permission given for redistribution with
attribution to William and Brunhilde, for Non-commercial use only.