THE WORM TURNS

Raul Roget 

 Copyright resides with author

Free chapter available from bdsmbooks.com

I met She at a church social. I won’t give her the satisfaction of using her name. She is more than enough. If she hadn’t had obvious tits and a pussy I would have used “it.”

        Church functions are touted as the ideal hunting grounds for a potential partner. She found me all right, trapping me in a corner when I had both hands full. I should have head-butted her and run for the door, but I was as green as grass when it came to women. That meeting sticks in my mind like a sore thumb, constantly bothering me and if I bump it, it really hurts.

        It took about two seconds for even dumb me to realize that she was lusting to get laid. She couldn’t have made it any plainer if she had opened her legs and pointed at her pussy. My virginity was wearing on me so we had a common objective. My house was about two blocks from the church, so I had walked, and now walked back with her, hand in hand, her fingernails scratching messages in the palm of my hand that promised an exciting evening that would deliver me from my innocence.

        Once inside the door, she undressed me in nothing flat. I should have realized she had practice. Her clothes disappeared just as rapidly. She grabbed my cock and I pointed to the bedroom. She stooped and grabbed her purse as I stumbled behind her.

        She almost threw me onto the bed and while I recovered and turned to see what she was doing, she came onto the bed swinging a pair of handcuffs by one cuff, holding them out toward me. I opened my mouth to protest - somehow stop her - but my jaw dropped when she ordered, “Cuff me, to the head of the bed!”

        All I could think was “What in Hell is going on?” I’d seen bondage pictures on the Internet and in the town’s one adult bookstore, but nothing prepared me for this! No woman is going to ask me - a complete stranger - to lock her up before I get a chance to put my pecker in her pussy.

        I leaned over her head to wrap the cuffs around one of the vertical bars and damned if she didn’t raise her head and swallow my meat. She already had me pegged and only slurped it once, knowing I would empty my nuts if she did any more.

        Locking those cuffs was turning me on, but at the same time, I was concerned that I would hurt her. I’m a gentle man, kind to children, given to petting dogs and cats, someone who avoids swatting flies. I closed the cuffs, but I left enough room to navigate the Titanic between her wrists and the metal.

        She tilted her head back, looked, and pulled both hands out as if the cuffs weren’t there. “Damn you, tighten those fucking cuffs. Tight, you bastard!”

        Chagrined, I leaned over her again and shut the cuffs properly, so they were snug against her skin. She watched, but pointedly didn’t go near my cock with her mouth. As I worked I wondered how this woman ever got near a church, using such vile language.

        Finished, I reluctantly inspected to make sure both were properly tight and looked down at her body for the first time. Her arms stretched over her head did wonderful things to her tits, pulling them taut, with nipples that you could use to drill holes in a rock. Her legs were spread invitingly and her hips were rocking to some “Come to Mama” tune. I moved over her but she used her body to push me aside. “Lick me!” was her next command.

        Pussy beckoned. I’d seen enough porn to recognize it and just about enough to get me through my first attempt at bringing her off. She didn’t really need any encouragement, blasting a climax before I began to feel comfortable in what I was doing. While she was coming down, I decided it was time for me to stick my cock where my mouth had been. She obviously liked that, if her grunts and moans were any indicator. For me that first time was as memorable as men can describe it. Sliding my stiff cock up into her was like sticking it into a blast furnace. She was hot!

I swear the juice coming out of her was bubbling like a well full of molten lava. I lasted about ten strokes and shot my wad, bringing her to a screaming climax at the same time. She thrashed like a gaffed fish, tugging with her entire body weight against the implacable cuffs.

        She looked at me with fire spilling from her eyes. Her next demand was “Get some rope.” I happened to know where a coil of clothesline was hanging and was back in a flash, already stiffening up again.

        She looked at me rather oddly. “I don’t suppose you have a whip?”

        “No..... but, there’s an old cane. Would that do?”

        She mumbled something to herself and nodded, rather than answering. Unsure, I hesitated. “Go!” I went.

        Her eyes gleamed when she saw me come back. The cane was a souvenir of a trip my parents took, stopping in India. Father had jokingly threatened to use it on me, but never did. I vaguely recalled that he had referred to it as a “malacca” cane. She obviously knew what it was, recognizing it on sight. She turned on the bed, jamming her cuffs, until she was lying on her stomach. “Cane me.”

        I looked at her, looked at the cane, and shook my head. I could tell that the thin rattan would smart, hurt, welt. I shook my head violently as I was not about to hurt a woman, especially one that had allowed me to screw her.

        She glared at me, anger darting from her eyes. “I said ‘cane me’ you prick!” she yelled.

        Cowed by her words and angered by her tone, I got a grip on the handle end and swung for the bleachers. The sickening thud when it hit home caused my stomach to roll over until I was ready to puke. In my ignorance I had hit her at least three times as hard as I should have. She fainted. I waited until she came out of it and tapped the cane on her ass, right next to the violently red welt, in all innocence ready to give her another.

        Quickly she turned away from me. “That’s enough. No more.” Her voice sounded strange, subdued but with an odd sparkle, which is about the only way I can describe it. When she came out of it, she was - almost - normal, or what passed for normal with her.

        She didn’t want me to touch her, until I brought some salve to put on her throbbing welt. She accepted my ministrations with a quiet grunt.

        She gingerly turned on her back, letting her ass cheeks down very gently, whimpering a bit when her welt was pressed into the mattress. She spread her legs.  With fumbling fingers I followed her commands and tied her ankles to the bed posts. Then she requested a towel to catch the river flowing out of her pussy. I caught her eying me, a strange look, almost one of respect, as I worked.

        Soon she was back to her demanding bitchy self, ordering me around like a servant. I was put to work sucking her pussy three times, each time with more and more instructions - “Lick here”

        “Lick there!” “Deeper!” “Hard on my clit!”

        She was beginning to annoy me, even after she beckoned for cock. Perhaps more annoyed, because she began instructing me on how to use my cock to satisfy her. I don’t mind learning from a good instructor, but she was being a real bitch about it, nothing pleasing her. “Slower!” “Faster” “Deeper” “Rub it against my clit.”

        She had introduced herself at the church but like a typical man, her name had gone in one ear and out the other. I carefully avoided addressing her in a manner that would require a name and managed to get away with it for some time.

        Finally exhausted, she had me untie her and unlock the cuffs before she rolled over with her back to me and went immediately to sleep. I wasn’t far behind. A brief review of losing my virginity and I was dead to the world.

        She was awake at the crack of dawn, expecting me to go down on her. I had a bad enough taste in my mouth, but she brooked absolutely no exceptions to what she ordered me to do. As I obeyed it dawned on me that I was just as submissive as the women I saw in bondage on the Internet. She was the classic Mistress. I felt that she was holding back a bit, because she was in strange territory, but I could imagine what it would be like to be a submissive on her home turf. She was barking orders like a Marine drill sergeant.

        She wanted breakfast in bed. I’m good at boiling water for tea, but that’s the extent of my experience in preparing a meal. She picked up the cane and began waving it in my general direction, making painful contact several times, but at last she condescended to instruct me in how to make coffee, toast, eggs and cereal. Her commands were interspersed with threats of painful bodily harm if she had to repeat any order.

        She made it quite clear that after one lesson, I would henceforth produce a perfect breakfast on command. Through some miracle I learned and other than the odd flap over an egg that somehow made it to the floor - which I had to eat in place and leave the floor sparkling - I made a passable cook. Not that she let up on the criticism for one moment. The better I got at anything, the more she verbally abused me.

        I spent the morning running a vacuum cleaner all over the house. She could smell a speck of dirt three rooms away and she began waving the cane again. Like cooking, I had never done housework, so her mouth was working nonstop. Just before lunch she discovered a fist-sized dust devil under the bed after I had done the room. She walloped me with the cane across the back of my thighs. It hurt, and I yelled. She promptly hit me again for making noise. It was at that moment that I realized how hard I had hit her that first time. I wanted to apologize, but I had been told to shut my mouth, once, and that and the cane were enough to make a mute out of me.

        I prepared lunch. By the time I had it on the table I was ready to crown her with the salad bowl, but she gave me a look that would curdle milk. I was sick of her constant nagging and was gathering strength to ask her to leave. Ask, not order, because at that point I was still being a gentleman. She beat me to the punch.

        “I’m going to move in with you. You can move your things to the spare bedroom.”

        My anger drew me to my feet. She rose at the same time and I promptly lost the battle of wills. Remember, she had the cane.

        “The moving van with my things will be here at 2. You can help unload.”

        I stared at her, mouth open. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. My mind was thundering the question, “How did she do that?”

        Way too late, and pointlessly, I wanted to shout at her, “This is my house, and I decide who lives here!” I’m sure she would have laughed, and I would have been embarrassed and would fumble all over myself trying to make it right, and I would have welcomed her to my home.

        As soon as I finished the dishes, she put me to work stripping my bedroom into boxes, which were dumped in the smaller spare bedroom. I even had to take the sheets off and remake the bed with fresh sheets. She grudgingly allowed me to keep the dirty sheets to make my new bed. The bed in my new room was smaller; it was rickety and squeaked, with a lumpy mattress, long ago cast off and relegated to the spare bedroom for dire emergencies.

        While I sweated, she amused herself by going through my closet and tossing out some of my favorite clothes. I came the closest to protesting over that, but her glare would burn toast at a hundred yards. There was still an impressive amount of clothes, far more than the tiny closet I now had could hold.

        She emptied my underwear and sock drawers by pulling them out and turning them over. I had to scramble to pick them up before she kicked the clothes into the corners of the room that was now hers. Now all I had were two egg crates on end to serve as open shelves.

        As I worked my mind kept coming back to submissives, comparing them with myself. To say the least I was startled when I realized that I actually enjoyed being browbeaten and disciplined by her. At the moment she was the all-powerful figure - just what I needed to keep me in line and make me toe the mark.

The big truck was full to the back doors with her stuff. It took the driver, his helper and I almost three hours to unload. She rode close herd on every box, telling us exactly where to put it. She was all sweetness with the movers, ignoring me, other than to give me dirty looks when they weren’t in the room. When they finished she thanked them profusely and told me to give each of them a twenty as a tip. The money wasn’t a problem, but the cavalier way she used it gave me pause.

        She had pizza delivered for dinner, treating the boy the same, and again I had to cough up the tip and of course pay for the meal.

        After dinner she put me to work opening and unpacking her boxes. The first dozen were in her bedroom. She promptly bawled me out when I opened the first box and dropped the packing on the floor to be cleaned up later. No way. She wanted immediate disposal. I had to go clear to the basement to get a large box and haul it up to the bedroom to use to dump the packing material.

        It was close to midnight before I got everything put away, to her dissatisfaction. As soon as I put something where she wanted it, she loudly complained that she was going to have to spend ‘days’ putting things where she could find them again.

        As you can imagine, I was exhausted after a day of work that I simply wasn’t accustomed to.  It takes only a little droplet of imagination to guess that she, who didn’t lift a finger - who watched me working like a slave - was raring to go. I was told in no uncertain terms that I was to shower, shave again, empty myself so there would be no interruptions in her plans, and to “Hurry, every chance you get!”

        You hear that a lot, mostly as a joking, or half serious slogan. But you rarely, if ever, hear it with the venomous overtones that she used, threatening words that promised more of the cane if I didn’t obey. She didn’t have to spell out this, or many of her commands. For some weird reason we were on the same wavelength, almost as if we were reading each other’s minds.

        Already, if I were permitted to talk, I would undoubtedly finish her sentences, just as she would finish mine. That’s remarkable and wonderful when two people are deeply in love. It’s a holy terror when a Mistress is verbally overpowering a submissive. I, the submissive, was responding to emphatic orders and commands that were never spoken, not even subliminally.

        As I showered I tried to bring my brain back into focus, but the landslide I had been swept away in kept me from any coherent thought. All I could think of was obeying her, making her happy in any way she chose and becoming the perfect submissive for her. (That was before I began to hate her, but that didn’t come right away.)

        When I entered her bedroom, it was like a re-run of a video tape. I got on the bed. She advanced across the bed toward me, holding a pair of handcuffs. She opened her mouth, but not to order me to lock her to the headboard. No, no! This time the cuffs were for me. The ropes were not for her ankles, but for mine. But, I didn’t mind! Not in the slightest.

        If she wanted me helpless, she had a reason for it, which I had no business questioning. Obediently I positioned my arms and legs so that she could. My cock, direct wired to my brain, stood upright and glistening with lube. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and slapped it with a roundhouse swing that laid it flat. “We won’t need that tonight,” she snapped, eying the instant deflation with an expression that could only have been glee.

        She straddled me, sat heavily on my chest and shoved her hips forward, her pussy covering my nose and mouth. She cut off my last breath before I completely filled my lungs. “Lick!” It was loud, almost a scream. Only when my tongue was up to speed did she relent and let me draw a full breath. “Lick!” she said again and reached back and slapped my cock as punishment for having to repeat an order. I got on her clit and battered it with my tongue.

        I could tell from her moans that I had the right spot and tempo so I kept assaulting it, rasping my tongue over every exposed portion. She went rigid, then shrieked and yelled as her orgasm swept through her body. She rode my face to a second orgasm, grabbing my limp cock and molding it in her hand like so much putty, squeezing until I was yelling into her wetness. I had to clean her up. Then with swift motions she untied me and unlocked one of the cuffs. She pulled it loose from the post and locked it on my other wrist. “Get out of here!” She turned over and was asleep seconds later.

        I was in a daze. Everything had happened so fast. I knew I had satisfied her, but I neither expected, nor got even one word of appreciation. I was left with a sore cock she didn’t want. I crawled into my small bed, feeling the bumps and lumps in the mattress. I found out the bed was short, my feet hanging over the end if I stretched out.

        I consoled my sore cock as best I could until it dawned on me that I was masturbating - or was as far as she was concerned and she hadn’t given me permission to touch myself. I pictured myself getting on my knees and confessing touching. The vivid punishment scene that immediately filled my mind made me gasp in horror. I fell asleep and had nightmares all night long. I’d wake up, go back to sleep and resume right where I left off. In my dreams she was always hovering over me, watching me, waving that damn cane.