A Slight Difference of Opinion

Text by Susan Strict.  Artwork by Rodzo.

He stared straight up at her as she stood over him, wondering what on earth had made him say it. Argue with her? That would be complete madness. There she stood, legs apart and the spiked heels of her shoes either side of his head. He was bound, of course; totally helpless and naked with his wrists and ankles held wide apart by the restraints buckled round them and bolted to the floor of her office.

She stood with one hand behind her back, and doubtless holding something nasty she would use to punish or torment him at the slightest excuse. Her other hand was in front of her, resting lightly just below her hip and keeping her jacket out of the way as she looked down at him with an expression that was neither a smile nor a sneer but which simply showed her contentment at being in complete control of the naked man below her.

"You’re not arguing with me?" she asked again.

"No, of course not."

"Of course not Mistress," she corrected him.

"Of course not, Mistress," he said humbly. "Please will you let me go now."

He knew it was a pointless request. She had no touched him yet, other than the slightest contact when she buckled those straps that now held him inescapably until she chose to release him. Obediently he had removed all his clothes when she demanded it, knowing what was to come but unable to refuse her. Without a murmur he had stood still, his hands on his head as she had walked round him inspecting him. He did not complain when she ordered him to lie down, meekly stretching out his arms and legs so they were in exactly the right position for her to attach and tighten the restraints.

So how, he asked himself, could he have been so stupid to tell her he did not want to stay there all afternoon before she had even done anything to him?

"You were arguing with me."

Her voice came clear and cold. He was in trouble, serious trouble, and he knew it.

"I was arguing with you. I’m sorry, Mistress."

"You deserve punishment."

"I deserve punishment, Mistress." It made no difference. She would punish him whatever he said.

"How shall I punish you?"

How should she punish him? He knew it was a dangerous question. She would be angry, unthinkably angry, if he were to choose a punishment she considered too mild, yet to name something that would really hurt him might imply it was what he really wanted. There were a hundred wrong answers to the question. Perhaps there was no right answer.

He looked straight up at her, straight up between her legs as she stood astride him. There was nowhere else to look. She was impossible; impossibly beautiful and impossibly arousing. It was, too, so impossible that he should allow her to do this to him over and over again, week after week. He never liked it, never enjoyed it, and yet....

"So, I see you have chosen your punishment."

Her words cut through the air, crisp and sharp.

"I...," his voice faltered. Had he chosen? How?

She was looking behind her, down at him. Now he knew. He knew she had seen his arousal and there was no disguising or denying it. That was the part of him she intended to punish, although as yet he did not know exactly how. She was so inventive and, when she put her mind to it, so diabolically devious.

She stared down at his face again, and she brought her hand from behind her to reveal what she held in it.

A pair of gloves? Just a pair of gloves? No whip? No clamp? No nasty little gadget to cause him pain?

Just a pair of gloves.

Slowly she put them on, and then bent down to stroke his cheek gently with her long fingers. He gasped as he felt the pain from the roughness of the surface of the glove, scraping his cheek like sandpaper.

He tried to tell her not to do it, and that anything, almost anything, would be preferable to what he now knew she intended to do.

She ignored him.

She turned round and sat down on his chest, grasping his hardness in both hands. She squeezed, making him cry out. As if only just realising he would make a noise, she gave a little cry of surprise, muttering "We can’t have that" as if to herself.

She lifted herself from his chest and moved backwards before lowering herself carefully and firmly onto his face. She adjusted her position until she had it just right. His nose was pressed into her, but although his mouth was partly covered he could still breathe through it and she could just reach what she wanted. She tested the position, looking down to make absolutely sure. Yes, it was perfect. She only had to lean forward a fraction to block his breathing completely.

Satisfied, she grasped his hardness again, this time holding it firmly in one hand while she ran one finger round and round the very end of it. His cry of terrified discomfort as cut off as she leaned forward, holding her position until his mouth stopped moving and she was sure his noise had stopped, but without ceasing the movement of her finger on him.

This was, she decided, going to be one of her most satisfying afternoons.