A Date with W

Here is a snapshot of my date with W:
We are in the theater.  It is dark, but we are up front and the others watching the movie are there, in the dark, behind us.  They can see me squirm, they can see his arm crossed in front of me, I imagine they know that his hand is in my panties, his fingers in my pussy.  What they don’t know is that I have two feet of chain link inside my pussy and he is pushing the links around inside me as he sits there, watching the film.  It was a good movie too, tho I think I missed a large portion of it, my attention not being squarely on the movie screen.  I wonder if they are close enough to hear my whimpers and the occasional sigh, the accidental “no!” or moan.  They can’t know that my ass is tender from the buttplug he just allowed me to pull out, or that I am wearing a bra that is merely metal rings and leather, designed not for modesty but for the opposite: to make my breasts thrust out, make my nipples stand at-and demand-attention.  They can’t know that I went through dinner with a buttplug in my ass and rope around my waist and people in the dining room staring at my nipples through my blouse.  They don’t know that W has fucked me with the chain inside and that I can feel it every time I move, sliding around inside me.
But all that was after I had been to his house.
Here, let me start at the beginning.
Occasionally, we actually do do vanilla stuff.  Go out to dinner or drinks or a movie, hang out and talk.
This wasn’t one of those times.
I thought at first it might be.  We’d been playing email tag.  I had been feeling particularly vulnerable, particularly fragile since the weekend, and had been working those feelings out in words.  I had danced around the notion of going over to his house, of laying my body and mind at his feet, of allowing myself the familiar release I find there.  Instead I suggested going to a movie, something so mundane that I’d forget about the weekend and its frustrations and disappointments.   He replied that he was feeling “exploitative and abusive.”  Was I ready for that side of him?  I felt the familiar clench of anxiety and excitement as I read his words.  His weekend had not been all that he’d wanted, either.  There was some leftover, excess energy there that we had not gotten to expel.  Was I brave enough to go there?   Or were those edges still too raw?  But sometimes that is when I want him most, when I want to give up control to him the most, when I just want to let him take me in whatever way he wants.  I took a deep breath, typed ‘I can do either,’ and hit the send button.
‘Let’s do both,’ he replied immediately.
I arrived at his house, anxiety humming through me.  He let me put down my purse, then without any other preliminaries, he took me by the wrists and propelled me upstairs.  Grabbing me by the hair he pushed me to the bed and told me to put on my heels.  I obliged, my hands shaking a bit.
When my shoes were buckled on he drug me back up, still with a hand in my hair, and pushed me into the bondage room.  Without a word he shoved me to the floor, held me down, and tied my hands and wrists.  I was still clothed, wearing the long skirt and blouse I’d worn to work.  He lifted my skirt, shoved my panties aside and slapped me, hard, on my bare pussy.  I squealed and tried to avoid his hand, he held me by the hair to keep me still.  Slapped me across the face.  Then callously, deliberately, he fucked me.  He used my ass, he fucked my cunt.  At some point I ceased to be “me”, and was only a hole to be fucked.  He used my holes, he used me, his cunt, his hole, slamming into my pussy or ass only to pull out and slap my pussy over and over, to shove me around, to slap my face.  I was panting, whimpering, and finally, exhausted.  Feeling the exhaustion of all the thoughts in my head finally beginning to ease.  I was only a body to be used, a hole to be fucked.  My head could stop.
Then he brought out the chain.
I heard the rattle of it against the wood floor, but I was bemused and foggy, not really tracking on what his intention might be.  I had rope on my wrists and ankles already–why the chain?  Then he knelt down between my legs.  I was laying on my back, my naked pussy exposed and open to him.  He began to rub lube on me, and I started to enjoy it…my mound and lips were still tender from his slaps, his hands felt warm and gentle.  Gentleness, after the casual brutality of his fucking…
And then he began pushing the chain inside me.
He was slow and careful, but chain is chain, it is made up of thick metal links, and the only way it will go in is to be shoved, to be pushed.  I resisted at first, but gradually, as I always do, I opened up for him.  I don’t have a choice, and that is the beauty of it.  My pussy, my body, is his to do with what he wants.  And he wanted me filled with chain.  Heavy, fluid-feeling, cool, slippery chain…the image of it sliding into me filled my head, made me gasp, made me wet.  Two feet of it, eventually, filling my cunt.
And then…he fucked me with it inside.  And he wasn’t slow and gentle about that.  He battered my chain-filled pussy with his cock, shoving brutally into me and pulling out, only to pound into me again.  I felt his cock shoving the chains up inside me, felt the metal battering my cervix, pinching my insides.  His cock felt huge and swollen and angry inside me.  I loved it.  It hurt and it felt good and I pushed back against him as much as the ropes would allow, wanting him inside me, possessing me, fucking me.
But then he pulled out abruptly, leaving me tied on the floor without a word while he went in the other room.  He returned with a buttplug.  Again, I resisted, but he was implacable, and shoved it deep into my ass while I whined and panted before fucking me in my chain-filled cunt again.  And suddenly I came, helplessly, mewling, my face shoved into the floor, my ass and my pussy his.
I laid there in silence for a moment.  Drained, depleted, dazed, my head quiet.  I had forgotten about the movie by that time.  He hadn’t.
He said something about getting ready to go, pulled me to my feet and over to the one of the floor-to-ceiling ropes he has in that room.  It’s funny, I look at those ropes and something clicks in my head, because he uses them as holding spots for me.  He doesn’t release me in between one thing and another, he merely docks me while he gets ready for whatever-else-is-to-come.  So I stand there and go into “waiting” mode.  He got out more rope.  I could still feel the chains heavy inside me, wanted the buttplug out, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.  He tied rope between my legs and around my waist to hold it all in place.  Then he pulled off my blouse and replaced my bra with the leather and metal-ring bra he had made for me, pulled my blouse back on and stepped back to admire his handiwork.  The blouse was made of thin material that stretched over the contraption, covering it but not hiding it.  My nipples stuck out like twin marbles. I couldn’t even imagine what the padlock looked like in back.  I asked him, meekly, if he was going to let me wear my real bra over the ring bra.  He laughed at the suggestion.
And we went on our date.

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