The Apero — a scene (7)
Erotic Art Stroll Feature (April). A fictional, consensual BDSM scene played out by a dominant sadist and a submissive masochist — alternating his and her pov's.
I often write my scenes inspired by a painting or a drawing.
This scene was inspired by Melvina’s “Possession”
As always, all works of art in this piece are handmade by Melvina.
Preface
This couple is in an established D/s play partnership. They’ve played in a dungeon several times, and the same characters feature in all my kinky fiction stories. If you’re interested in reading these previous encounters, please have a look at scenes one to six.
Most of my scenes are written from her perspective (the submissive masochist). In this one, however, I’ve added his point of view for more depth.
Enjoy the read.
Content Warning! Whereas this scene is pretty “soft”, most scenes describe powerplay and sadomasochistic activities in detail and might be too graphic for those who are not into D/s or SM. You have been warned.
I hurry to open the door for her — she’s punctual, as always.
I freeze for a split second when my gaze lands upon her. Wow. There’s something different about her, how she holds herself. I can’t take my eyes off her as she steps in, exuding confidence.
“Come in,” I stammer, although she’s already past me, curiously inspecting my flat.
I’ve never seen her in business casual before, and I wonder why she’s dressed so smart, but then again, I don’t know much about her — something I want to change. This is one of the reasons I’ve invited her over to my place for a chat.
I greet her with airy cheek kisses, as is the custom, and she hands me the baguettes I asked her to bring. She looks around my spacious, sparsely decorated apartment filled with natural light, observing the stacked moving boxes, but she doesn’t ask about them.
I show her the modest view — there’s no need for a tour — before I guide her over to the table that’s already set with a tasty apero platter displaying different cheeses, dried meats, olives, nuts, and some complimentary fruit. I cut the bread and bring over the bread basket, sitting down across from her.
“Riesling?”
Her eyes bore into mine, and there’s a stiff moment I might read too much into. I remember alcohol being on her seemingly endless no-go list, and wonder if that’s the reason for her reluctance. Surely this woman drinks wine.
“One glass.” Her tone is self-assured, almost bossy.
Fair enough.
I pour some golden elixir for both of us and make a mental note not to refill our glasses — I don’t want to fuck this up.
I raise my glass, and we toast. “Thank you for coming.”
She gives me a somewhat smug smile that I don’t know how to interpret, so I go on. “How have you been?”
I’ve been mildly worried about her, as our last session didn’t go exactly as planned. I’m not too concerned about her physical healing, as I know she’s tough, but I think she took it as a personal defeat and has had some trouble dealing with the disappointment. We’ve discussed it at length on our messaging app, and she has assured me she’s …
“Fine. How are you?” She looks over at the boxes again. “Moving?”
“Yeah … in a week.” I wonder how much I should reveal. We don’t know too many personal details about each other for a reason. “To the other side of the city …”
As I mention the area, she momentarily freezes. I would have expected an impressed eyebrow lift, but this looks more like discomfort. It’s where wealthy people live, and as I watch her, it occurs to me that she might be loaded.
The way she holds her wine glass, the way she gracefully picks up and consumes a piece of Gruyère and then a slice of apple. There’s a certain sophistication in the way she moves and what she chooses to enjoy.
Her high-quality skirt suit and silk blouse also reveal that she is well-off, although she’s not wearing designer clothing. I’ve never seen her in anything but casual street wear or those loose dresses, and I wonder what else I’ve missed.
She’s a mystery to me, even though we’ve been seeing each other — well, playing with each other — for more than six months now.
She’s not like the other submissives I’ve played with. She knows what she wants and is very detailed and specific about it. And when messaging, she’s not submissive at all. Her desire to please resurfaces only in a special setting, in a certain room, and even then, the entire scene is usually carefully scripted. She doesn’t like surprises.
I admit I misjudged her at first. When she contacted me and wanted to be tortured and whipped and cained, I thought sure. But this woman really does want to be whipped and cained and tortured. I’ve had to recalculate countless times. She can take so much that I’ve been concerned, more than once, about causing lasting damage or real injury.
My mission to guide her to less extreme play has only partially worked. That’s one reason why I want to propose a change, but I’m unsure how she’ll react. As I watch her now, she seems completely indifferent, not like the other submissives who would be melting in their chair, ready to cater to my every whim.
The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve even lost interest in playing with anyone else, which is why I so desperately want to hold on to her, although I’m not sure she feels as strongly.
Her voice brings me back to earth.
“Is she moving with you?” She leans back and takes a sip of her wine.
“Who?” I blurt out.
She kind of frowns and lifts her eyebrows at the same time. “Your girlfriend?”
Ah, yes. My girlfriend, who decided to move on, claiming I’m too obsessed with my subs.
“No ... she moved out already. We’re … going our separate ways.”
“Oh … I’m sorry to hear that.” She looks genuinely sorry, but also a bit puzzled, or perhaps offended? “You haven’t mentioned anything about that.”
“Yes, well … nothing dramatic has happened. I guess we just figured out we weren’t a good match.” I watch her rather sceptical expression turn into a look of disregard. “Anyway, it’s better this way. I want to focus on my career.”
She doesn’t comment, and I’m keen to change the subject.
“How are the marks healing?”
There’s a faint smile on her lips as she spins the wine in her glass, focused on the twirling nectar. “Well.”
“Show me.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “Sorry?”
“Open your blouse and show me your breasts.” It comes out a bit more commanding than I intended, but this is the first hint of any humble submission I see in her.
She carefully removes her blazer and puts it on the chair next to her. Then she unbuttons her blouse and exposes her boobs. I’ve asked her not to wear a bra, and as the good girl she is, she has done so.
The lines of the cord I whipped her with last time are still visible on her breasts.
“I bought you something.” I slide a little jewellery box over the table.
She seems taken aback and even a bit suspicious, but reaches out to take it. “Thank you.”
“Open it.”
She opens the box with caution and picks up decorative nipple clamps.
“Put them on.” It’s an order — and meant that way.
She does as told, and I can see her holding her breath when the clamp pinches her nipple. When both are hanging in place, she straightens her back and pushes out her chest.
I admire her hardened nipples and her firm breasts, but then she starts buttoning her shirt again.
“Leave it open.”
She flushes a bit and keeps her gaze down, but she pulls her blouse to the sides so that her now decorated breasts are on display for me. Good girl.
I’m not sure how to bring up the topic I actually wanted to discuss. Not so much because of fear of rejection, but an unwillingness to ruin what we have.
“So … I wanted to ask … if you’d be willing to come and play at my place when I’ve moved.” I watch her reaction, but her face remains blank. “I know you said that you’ll only play at a dungeon and never privately, but we’ve been seeing each other for a while now … and I very much enjoy playing with you.”
She’s not jumping for joy, and I try to divert. Perhaps this was a mistake.
“We can still meet at the dungeon or at the warehouse sometimes … it’s just that I will be quite busy … I’m also changing positions, and I won’t be very flexible.”
She picks up an olive with a cocktail pick, and I can’t help but feel a stir in my pants as I watch her squeeze it between her teeth. Then it disappears behind her lips — her rich, full, sexy lips, that look so perfect wrapped around my shaft.
“And you want a maid? Or a housekeeper?”
“No …” I almost stammer, again. Why would she think that? “It would be strictly play, as it has been until now.”
But she flashes a cheeky smile and purrs. “Really? No role play?”
I hadn’t thought of that, as she hasn’t been into role play. Does this mean she would be up for that?
But then she sighs. “I’m not sure a bedroom does it for me …”
For some reason, I struggle to find the words, although I’ve thought about an answer to this already. “I have tools … and toys.” And the same authority, but for some reason, the sentences don’t form. “It wouldn’t even require a bedroom.”
She looks like she’s considering it. “And how would it play out?”
“What do you mean?”
“What would a scene look like?”
I’m not sure why she expects it to be any different from our previous sessions. I straighten up, and her eyes drop to my chest.
“You’d be mine to enjoy however I choose, mine to play with whenever you are here.” My voice is low and strict, filled with self-confident calm. “You’d serve me as a good girl, or bad, depending on my mood. Then I’ll whip the crap out of you and fuck your brains out.”
The corner of her mouth is twitching, again. “Polite and gentle” is what doesn’t do it for her. There’s more activity in my crotch as I imagine all the things I’d do to her.
“And if I’m too loud?” Those big, curious, almost innocent eyes bore into mine.
Oh, how I love her purity.
“I’ll gag you.” I hold her gaze. “You’ll learn to be quiet.”
There’s defiance in her eyes, as if she’s daring me. I keep my eyes locked with hers; she’s not going to take over here — I’ll show her.
She lowers her gaze and speaks in a softer tone, inviting me in with her catlike purring. “Show me.”
I hesitate only because we haven’t agreed to play, nor discussed this situation or which limits apply. But I can see she’s eager; I sense the need in her entire being — she’s not too good at hiding it. And I have a need. I didn’t get to fuck her last time, and as I think of it now … it’s been ages since I ravished her.
“Bend over the table … over there,” I indicate at the other end of the dining table, “and pull up your skirt.”
She looks that way, but doesn’t move — the cheekiness is back.
She turns to me with a daring smile. “Make me.”
I lift my eyebrows — my dick hard now — but I want to proceed with caution. She doesn’t like aggression, and yet, I need to show her I’ll put her in her place. The way she likes it.
He leans back in his chair, and I look at his strong, toned arms as he starts rolling up his sleeves. He’s taking his time, moving slowly and deliberately, with his usual confidence. I feel my cunt throbbing as I watch his lips curl into a knowing smile while he focuses on his sleeves. As if he knows exactly how to deal with mouthy brats like me.
My throat goes dry, and I swallow. I don’t usually behave so provocatively with him, but he likes a bratty attitude — and adjusting it — and I crave to be corrected.
He gets up, and I jerk out of my seat, also on my feet now, turning to face him as he walks around the table. I feel myself creaming my panties — my thong, which barely holds my folds. I step back along the table, feeling the edge on my behind.
I don’t know why I’m not upset about his proposal. I made it clear in the very beginning that I would only play at a dungeon. And yet, being taken, used, tied up and punished by him at his personal residence makes my pulse skyrocket.
What is his magic?
I take one more step to the side, and he halts a meter from me.
God, he’s sexy even with a shirt on.
“This is how it goes: I command, and you obey. Any disobedience will be dealt with.” He steps closer. “Now bend over the table and expose your ass so that I can punish you.”
The blood in my veins rushes with such vigour I can hear it. I hesitate, and the moment seems to last forever. His pose is not threatening in any way, but his aura is incredibly demanding — I don’t feel like pushing it any further. I slowly turn to face the table and lean in over it, putting my hands on the cool surface. I know this is not the position he meant, and I haven’t pulled my skirt up.
“You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?” His stern voice makes a shiver run up and down my spine. I love feeling apprehensive like this.
His hands are on my hips, pulling up the fabric of my tight dress skirt, and I soon feel him against my bare buttocks, pinning me against the table. His dick is hard in his pants, and my vagina lubricates once more. He pushes my thong down and lets it stay halfway down my thighs.
My God, how humiliating. And yet, it’s overpowered by another thought. I need him inside of me.
I don’t move or say anything, wondering how bratty I dare be. He slides his hands up along my sides, pulls my blouse aside and finds my boobs. Suddenly, he grabs the clamps, and his husky voice almost makes me come.
“Down.” I gasp loudly as the clamps squeeze my nipples and I’m pulled down, forced against the table. Then his leg is between mine. “Spread.”
I instinctively do, my thong now digging into my thighs. Oh, my.
He uses these little details to his advantage with well-calculated precision, guiding me into the exact right mindset. This is what makes him such an incredible dominant, someone I’d submit to anywhere, anytime, as he knows exactly how to strip me of my dignity, without actually doing it.
I’m too slow to obey his last command “hands behind your back” and he helps me rather roughly by grabbing both my wrists in one hand. He holds me in place with such a strong grip that it almost hurts, then steps to the side and gropes me in a most uncivil manner. He has never been aggressive like this before, and the old me would have been scandalised by his savage approach, but for some reason, I’m loving it.
“Dripping, are we?” He spanks me hard on my ass, and I let out a whimper as I’m still a bit sore. He gives me another one on the other cheek, and I wail quietly. This is unlike me, and he takes a break to inspect my behind.
He admires the marks on my perfect peach — I still have obvious, though faded, bruises and lines from the birching he gave me two weeks ago. His voice softens a bit while he praises me for doing so well last time. My insides melt, and it makes me jolt when he spanks me again.
“A sore ass won’t get you out of this punishment.” The strict dominant is back.
The needy little thing inside me can’t wait to be corrected. Give it to me already!
He lets go of my arms, but a second later, I hear him tightening a zip-tie around my wrists. He pulls it tight, and I muffle my yelp as I look at him over my shoulder. He steps back, opens his belt buckle and pulls his belt out.
My heart almost stops. OMG. He’s never given me the belt before.
I watch him fold it in two and pull it, causing a loud snap, his authoritarian eyes on me — I’ve never seen anything more exhilarating and carnal in my life.
Fuck, yes.
The belt — or the setting, I’m not sure — somehow feels more intimate, more shameful, and a joyful warmth spreads inside me. I didn’t know I had a shame kink before now, but I feel elevated thinking about what’s to come and how humiliating it’ll feel.
