"Please, really," she stammered. Now that he was denying her, the pressure in her bladder suddenly seemed acute.
"Oh, ok, go ahead," he said, grinning, unable to keep up the 'stern master' persona he had been adopting.
Tracy sighed with relief and wobbled toward the small bathroom just off the front entrance of the room. She shut the door, clicking the lock into place. When she was done, she opened the door to a room that was now totally dark.
A strong hand seized her wrist and she was jerked roughly into the room. "Don't youever lock a door on me, do you hear! You will never close any door to me. Period." Guy's voice was low and he sounded really angry. His grasp on her wrist hurt and Tracy squirmed and struggled against him.
She realized she couldn't get her breath and felt dizzy. Guy pressed her roughly against a wall and slammed his body against hers. Standing in her high heels they were eye to eye, and he pressed his face close against hers, forcing her mouth open with his. He was kissing her roughly, still holding her wrists, which he had pinned against the wall.
His breath smelled like beer and she realized he'd probably had a drink on the way over. Maybe he was scared too? He was married, after all, and she doubted he made a habit of meeting coworkers after hours for illicit sex. Though who knew?
Thoughts flew out of her brain as his mouth mashed against hers. Her body was reacting to the rough stolen kiss, to the grip on her wrists and to his body, surprisingly strong, pressed hard against hers. She felt herself responding to him, and for a moment the chatter in her brain was silenced as feelings of desire, fear and lust, melded into a heat that left her weak.
He pulled away suddenly and Tracy sagged against the wall, her lipstick smeared, her breasts heaving. "You look like a slut," Guy hissed, his voice hard, the slow drawl now completely absent.
"Stand up and put your wrists behind your back. Do it. Now."
His tone brooked no resistance, and slowly Tracy stood up from the wall, still trying to catch her breath. She lowered her arms, feeling her heart thudding against her ribs like a caged bird.
"Put your hands behind your back," he repeated, "wrists together." Guy walked over to retrieve those shiny cuffs from the bureau. It was happening. She felt almost as if she were in a dream as she clasped her wrists behind her and waited to feel the cold metal. Even though she was expecting it, still she gasped as she felt the steel against her flesh.
There was a grating sound as he pressed the bracelets together, ratcheting them tightly against her wrists. He half led, half pushed her toward the end of the bed, where he pressed her to kneel once again, her face now resting against the spread, ass displayed. Guy rummaged for a few minutes in his duffel bag and came back, waving something in front of the still kneeling Tracy. It was a whip! A huge black bullwhip. With a braying laugh, Guy flicked it sharply near her face, making the lash whistle in the still air.
Tracy jerked up, screaming with fear and indignation. "Get that thing away from me! What the fuck are you doing!" In that moment she had become convinced Guy was crazy, and was going to kill her. It was an irrational fear, and one that was quickly reabsorbed in the crazy kaleidoscope of feelings she was experiencing. He stepped back, looking nonplussed, and lowered the whip.
In agreeing to meet Guy at the motel, Tracy had mistakenly thought he knew what he was doing, and could handle all protests and run the show, so to speak, without breaking his stride. Despite his rather confident talk at their little lunches, what she didn't realize was, while his fantasies were much better developed and acknowledged than her own, his actual experience with any real bondage and discipline was quite limited. The only real experience he had with whips was one time in college with a girl he used to tie to a tree on their camping trips, and lightly whipped with a little flogger before he let her down and fucked her.
He had purchased this present, rather forbidding looking whip a few years ago, in a seedy adult boutique while on a business trip. He kept it, and a slowly growing collection of bondage paraphernalia, hidden in the garage under his fishing tackle, safe from the prying eyes of his prudish, repressed wife.
He was so excited now by the sight of his coworker, almost naked, her sexy curves stuffed into the little slut outfit he had gotten fromFrederick's of Hollywood and had had delivered to a secret P.O. box, that he had pulled out the whip with some vague notion of using it, though he hadn't a clue.
Tracy's protest jerked him out of the role he was playing, the tough guy Dom, to her cowering submissive. Neither one realized they couldn't just leap into a ready-made Dom-sub relationship, complete with the trust and love which should accompany such a relationship. For both of them, it was still a game, albeit a very exciting one.
Now he dropped the whip, murmuring, "Ok, ok, I wasn't really going to use it. Chill."
"Take these off me!" she ordered, confused and flustered by the changed atmosphere in the room. Guy dutifully obeyed, taking the little key from the bureau. Tracy massaged her wrists for a moment. There were red marks where the metal had bitten into her skin. How would she explain those marks if they didn't disappear?
At least he had put down that horrible whip! Tracy calmed down, relieved, but also, what? She felt, paradoxically, disappointed. He had backed down so easily. He hadn't 'forced' her to 'submit'. Instead of the rough 'master' telling her she had no choice in the matter, the Guy she knew from work, the passive, easygoing Mr. Gray, had dropped the whip and given in.
While Guy himself wasn't so articulate in his own mind as to what had gone wrong, he knew something had, and the momentum was momentarily lost. His aching cock wasn't about to let things die down, and without thinking further, Guy sat in a chair behind Tracy and commanded, "Come here. Now."
Tracy got up, slowly, her heart no longer pounding with the same fierce excitement, but still aroused. Guy was still fully dressed, and Tracy was aware that he was self-conscious about his extra weight. It made him less threatening to the also self-conscious Tracy, who hadn't been with another man for nine years. It also was sexier, in a way, imagining herself the naked slave girl to her fully clothed master.
"You need a spanking for refusing me," he said. "Get over here."
Hesitantly, but wanting it, Tracy draped herself over his knees, feeling his rock hard erection pressing into her thigh as he shifted, pulling her across his lap. Her pulse was racing again, beating a tattoo against her throat and ribs. She felt Guy pull aside the silky fabric to reveal her naked bottom. She blushed, her face against the soft denim of his leg, glad he couldn't see her.
Guy stroked her flesh for a moment, and she heard his own rapid breathing. He let his hand fall against one cheek. Spanking was something Guy had some experience with, and he felt confident, back in control.
At first it didn't hurt, and Tracy stayed still, waiting. Then he smacked her harder and she flinched slightly. Perhaps taking courage from her stillness, and its implied permission to continue, Guy became emboldened, and slapped her ass harder, making Tracy gasp a little, and jump against his lap.
He continued to smack her bottom, the sound of his hard palm against her ass rang out in the room, accompanied by the whirring and snuffling of the window unit air conditioner. Tracy began to breathe hard and fast, and felt dizzy with her head down at Guys knees.
As he continued to spank her, the sting and heat flowed to Tracy's pussy, making her wriggle as much with lust as a desire to avoid the hard, smacking hands raining down on her tender bottom.
Tracy kept expecting Guy to stop and flip her onto the bed and make love to her. Instead he kept on, spanking her in a hard, steady rhythm, until the lovely stinging heat began to shift to actual pain that made her jerk and cry out for him to stop.