I see a red door PT 2
Submitted By: Elektra

She was insatiable, and he was getting sore, I see a red door PT 2  both from being penetrated and from being massaged to orgasm, but he was unable to complain. Neil had become accustomed to the penis gag filling his mouth as it had for the past two hours. Yes, he still tried to scream when he came, but the resulting muted groans and grunts seemed adequate and normal to him now. His head hung over the edge of the table, unable to be held up any longer, much like his penis.

Finally, Alena sagged on his back, manipulating with futility his spent organ. Tonight was over. The fun was gone if she couldn't "force" him to cum in such a state of humiliation. But she still felt the power. It was non-sexual at the moment, but this was a woman who was always on the edge of sexual, never merely quiet or business-like. There was a heat to her that smoldered at the least of times, blazed at the best of times.

She thrust the strap-on dildo into him a few more times, listening to him grunt, and then she raised herself off of his back and withdrew quickly, resulting in another grunt from her male sex object, as he felt the pain of emptiness. She was sweating and she padded to the front of the table on which he was strapped and absently pushed her wet hair behind her ears. The dildo of the strap-on was inches from Neil's nose as she unlocked his gag and let it fall from his mouth to the floor.

For him it was an awkward moment, as he exercised his jaw to bring it back to the ability to talk once again. Minutes passed. The smell of the dildo was overpowering.

"Are you done with me?" he asked, rather sheepishly, a last shot at the "you-took-me-without-my-consent" defense.

She stared at him and then reached forward and lifted his head by the hair, putting his mouth a mere inch away from the dildo. He tried to turn away but she held him fast.

"Do you realize what I could make you do right now?" she said, "Open your mouth."

"Please Alena. No, I can't do that; I just can't. Please, I'm tired...used up I guess. My arms...they're asleep."

While he complained she reached down and retrieved the gag. "I see," she said.

"Can you...mmff?" he managed to say as he was re-fitted with the gag. He had intended to ask her to untie him.

"I will release you once you have been taught that you do not have the ability to disobey me," she said sternly, "I want to see you again. I like you." She swatted him on the back with her flogger.

She retreated out of his sight behind him as she continued, "You are going to remember me...and come back to me for more. You are easy to read. And now I am going to put some printing on your ass that you will be able to read. Every time you sit down, you will think of me. You will hate me; you will want me; you will hate yourself; you will want me."

She started slowly and lightly, Neil unable to move a muscle to resist. Eventually she was swinging the flogger with every ounce of her strength, his gluteus becoming tenderized as if for cooking. Neil initially tried to scream with every hit, but he eventually sagged into a silent state of acceptance. The endorphins had kicked in and he found himself in sub-space, a condition he had read about at one time, but could not at that time understand. She continued unabated and the red welts on his ass rose up to meet the next assault until they rose up no more, split in two by the hit, a mash of blood and fat, and perhaps muscle. He broke at this point and wept, his tears dropping in torrents to where his gag had laid only moments before.

She stopped then, tired and satisfied, not because she had drawn blood, although that was part of it. She smiled at his condition. He was hard again. Beaten to a pulp, and he was hard again. Hard.

"Well," she teased, "you, girlie, are a born masochist, aren't you baby? Let's imprint this condition a bit then too, shall we?" And she took him in her hands and brought him to orgasm one more time while he heaved with grief and ecstasy.

"I want you to clean up your mess before you leave," she instructed, "There's a sink over there. I want this floor immaculate. Is that clear?"

Neil had his eyes closed, squeezing the tears out, and he moved his head in affirmation.

"Good," she said, "Now I am going to release you and you may go until I need you again." Slowly and methodically she undid the buckles and straps that held him firm, lower body first. She had worked her way up to his shoulders when she stopped and locked a tight-linked chain, with links about a quarter inch in length around his neck. There was a long loose end to the chain with an unknown purpose dangling menacingly to the floor. The release of his restraints continued. Finally she told him to stand up and he did so, somewhat unsteadily, his buttocks pulling with agony at the broken flesh, his mouth still gagged, and as he fought for consciousness the loose end of the chain was wrapped around behind his testicles and penis and locked in place. His neck was now bound to his genitals, and with every movement of his head he felt the tug between his legs. She removed the gag but he was still speechless.

He stood there wobbling in place while Alena put a house-coat on at the far side of the room. The erotic was immediately replaced by the elegance and femininity. She walked to him with not a menacing smile this time, but a warm "I-like-you" smile. Her arms wrapped around him now, like a blanket in a cold room, and she cooed in his ear, "It's okay baby; it's okay. Go ahead and cry; it's okay."

He did. His shoulders heaved and she rubbed his back and said sweet nothings until he stopped, his arms squeezing her.

"Bend over the table and I'll put something on your wounds before you get dressed," she whispered. She pampered him then, washed him, bandaged him, gave him some pain pills and continued the sweet nothings. He could not speak. All he could do was "receive" from this woman; he could not give.

Neil got dressed and cleaned his mess, feeling utterly used up. A fantasy is much different after orgasm that before it. This was not an equal relationship, and he could never do this again, not with her, not with anyone.

She drove him home and dropped him off, kissing him sweetly on the cheek, saying, "I'll take you again next weekend sweetie."

His first words in a long while, "No, no, I don't think so. Sorry, I can't do this." And he walked into the condo lobby and pressed the up arrow. 

Alena watched him until he stepped onto the elevator. When he disappeared, she smiled, put the car in Drive and went home with a comfort born of sated hunger and the knowledge she would be sated again, like a tiger with a hidden carcass.

It wasn't until he went to bed and removed his clothes that he remembered the chain. It was durable and not readily removable. Just before he drifted off in exhaustion, he made a mental note to get some bolt cutters tomorrow and try to remove it.

The pain killer wore off before morning and he got up to pace. When he tired of walking he tried to sit down but was unable to do so. He couldn't stop trying to figure out what had really happened to him strapped on that table. This was more than physical; he couldn't stop picturing her in her corset, the wonder of the sub-space he had endured at her hand, the orgasm after sweeping orgasm.

In the morning the pain seemed worse so he removed the dressings and showered, gingerly patting the wounds and staring at them in disbelief later in the mirror. How could she have done this to him? Why did she do this to him? Did she really expect him to obey her every whim, especially that particular whim? And most of all, why was he not angry? Shame was more like it, a deep regret for being what he was. But he had a need for...what? A need for being. What he was. A disconnect here, he thought, but gravity was pulling it all together.

Oh yes, the chain, he thought, I have to cut the chain. 

The hardware store had a suite of bolt cutters to choose from so he bought one that the sales guy said would cut a chain the size that he described. At home once again, he now stood in front of his bathroom mirror and tried to position the cutter in a place that would free the most of the restraint. He chose the noose around his genitals and put one link in the cutter vice and tried to cut it. The problem was that he couldn't get the required leverage. A second person could do it easily, but as much as he tried, he could not. Not to mention the possibility of seriously damaging the twins. He gave up in despair and spent the rest of the day lying on his stomach on the bed and researching subjects on the Web related to his ordeal the previous night.

Breaking away from that, he briefly contemplated phoning Alena and pleading with her to unlock him from the chain. With horror, he realized he didn't have her phone number, and he only vaguely remembered where she lived; the alcohol dulled him going in, and the pain killers had dulled him going out. It was on the west side; that's all he knew.

Monday arrived. He made sure he wore a dark shirt and tie so the chain wasn't visible. His balls hurt, his neck was chafing and he stood all day at his desk. The office was puzzled. And she didn't phone. She had said next weekend. Shit.

He declined going to work out with his peers at noon, for obvious reasons, pleading laziness. At 3:00 he pleaded sickness and went home to replace the salve and dressings on his rear end. Alena. Jesus, what the hell was he going to do?

By 9:00 he was completely bored and went to bed, stripped to the nude and stood in front of his mirror once again, contemplating his predicament. The soreness had become intolerable at his groin, so he decided to try hand cream to lubricate the chain around his scrotum. One thing led to another and he found himself standing there masturbating fiercely, the smell of her, the look of her, the feel of her, oh god, the feel of her, the feel of the dildo, rubbing, the fullness, rubbing, oh god. His free hand reached back and he inserted a finger as far as he could and he exploded while thinking of her in her corset and heels. He fell to his knees and said, "Oh no, God, oh no, Jesus, no." In desperation he pulled on the chain but it held fast.

By Wednesday, the open wounds had healed quite well and he could sit down, albeit with a certain delicacy more typically associated with a woman of dignity. But he could sit. He had told the office he had to take the week off. All he could think about was her. She consumed him. What if she didn't phone? What if she did phone? Who was he kidding? He had to see her. But he couldn't see her; he had to stop this. He had to stop.

"I have something for you."

She hadn't said hello. He had just picked up the phone on Thursday evening and that was all she said as an introduction.

"Who is this?" he asked (why, he had no idea).

"Guess what color it is," she said.

He gave up the charade, "Black?"

"Ooo, you're learning sweetie. You're learning. Yes, it's black. And it's for you. Actually, I have several black things for you. Want to know what they are?"


"Oh yes you do. You know you do. Ask me," she commanded.

He sighed heavily, but his heart was pounding as he said, "Okay, what are they?"

"A corset for you, a very severe one, and a leather discipline helmet. I have a reservation at the Oceana Restaurant for tomorrow night at 6:30. I'll see you there, okay?"

"Look," he said in exasperation, "I need to be released from this chain. Will you have the keys?"

She laughed, "What? That chain bothering you is it? It's nothing compared to what's in store for you baby. After this weekend, I won't need the physical chain. There's a chain much stronger than that, you know."

"Alena, please. What are you talking about?"

"Just be there. Oh, and don't plan to go home this weekend." Click.

He heard the click but, just like in the movies, he called out her name, "Alena. Alena? Shit!" And he hung up the phone.

He paced a bit, and then put on an old CD that he hadn't played in awhile and calmed down with a glass of Shiraz. The deliberate "garage band" music of the Stones filled the room. God it had been a long time since he listened to them. They were indeed way ahead of their time, such raunchy music.

He reached under his shirt and pulled at his chain. The simplicity and enormity of its bondage washed over him. Okay, he said to himself, one more time. Then I can be free.