In this story I wanted to experiment with a sort of continuous stream of consciousness approach.

I also wanted to consider what it feels like to need someone more than they need you.

I’m sure that imbalance is not unique to D/s relationships but submission adds an extra layer of vulnerability to feed self-reproach





“I’m sorry; Mr O’Neil is in a meeting. If you’d like to leave a message I can put you through to his voice mail.”

She sounds young and sexy and I wonder if you’ve screwed her and which hole you used and if she enjoyed it and if you came and if you hurt her the way you hurt me and if she wanted you to and why I care so much.


So she thinks I’m old and confused and to be smiled at patiently because you’ve used her holes more recently than you’ve used mine.

“Shall I connect you?”

Our last connection was in the stairwell of your glass and concrete phallus of a building and I let you rip my hose and force yourself into the first hole your cock found while one hand covered my mouth and the other mauled my breasts tearing a button from the silk blouse I’d worn because my nipples stretch the silk the way my desire for you stretches my morals until I let you use me from behind pushing me into the ugly metal stair-rail while I leaned out into the heartless concrete shaft of the stairwell so symbolic of you and you fucked me and fucked me and fucked me until your hot cum scalded my arsehole and tears stained my cheeks and something that might have been love but could just have been relief at feeling alive at last twisted in my guts.

“I’m putting you through to his combox now.”

She’s glad to be rid of me and my silence that could be helplessness or aggression but is unlikely to be anything she wants to deal with.

“This is Dan O’Neil; I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message.”

Please sounds as alien on your tongue as thank you or I love you. Please is a verb describing what I should do for you.  Please is what you make me say on my knees naked and needy in front of you begging for your cock and maybe your attention. Your cock at attention. The tension in your cock.

“It’s me, Beth.”

I can hear the need in my voice like a burn on my face transfiguring me into something damaged but compelling.

“I want…”


“… I wanted”

everything anything you can do to me.

“to let you know that…”

I only feel when you touch me am only visible when you look at me only live when you use me.

“I’m alone for a few days…”

and you could fuck me like the first time when you made me lie naked on my marriage-bed wearing only my wedding ring and finger fuck myself to a frenzy for your amusement before you tied me and fucked harder and better than my husband ever has not because you wanted me but because you knew I would remember it remember you every time he enters me in his gentle loving way on that bed in which I conceived his children and betrayed his trust.

“so if you’d like to come over for a meal…”

I’ll serve it wearing the tiny plastic maid’s outfit you bought me because you knew my tits would fall out of it and I would look like a slut but would wear it anyway because you told me to and I’ll kneel under the table while you eat and I’ll suck gently on your balls letting the drool run down my chin keeping one thumb up my arse and one in my cunt as you’ve taught me to do as I suspect you teach all of us to do all your stupid sluts.

“call me…”

Names. Filthy names. Names that make me writhe with shame and excitement, Names I want to live up to. Names that should be branded in my flesh as a warning to the world. Names that have stripped me of who I was and left me only with who I thought you wanted.

“on my mobile.”

The one you made me get. The one my husband doesn’t know I have. The one you pushed, condom-covered, into my cunt when you had me tied and helpless -although I am always helpless with you even when I am not tied – and threatened to ring so I’d know what phone sex was. The one I’m using now to offer myself to you because you are the only route I have to myself anymore.

I end the call but that doesn’t break the connection. I am leashed to you by a need that is stronger than I am.

Sitting waiting for your call, waiting for you to say if how and when you will use me, I start to cry. It is not the betrayal or the humiliation or the crippling tug of my need-leash that brings the tears. It is the knowledge, sure certain and cruel, that one day you will let go of my leash and I will trail it after me becoming tangled with it, maybe choked by it, until I die.


© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from


A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Blind Faith

I set “Blind Faith” in a harbour on Lake Geneva that I know well. The events described are entirely fictional. Blindfolding is a common element of D/s sex. It is often portrayed as taking something away from the person wearing the blindfold. In my experience, the blindfold often gives the sub the concentration, confidence and freedom fully to enter into the experience.

But of course, any D/s relationship develops its own layers of meaning and significant objects. For Faith, the blindfold is central to her understanding of her actions and her choices.


Blind Faith

Faith hesitated at the arched gateway that led from the Chateau to the harbour. Below her, the wide curve of the harbour wall protecting the small boats at anchor looked like a sleeping dragon that she would be better not to wake. Faith smiled at the image. Waking a dragon was exactly what she was here for. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and walked along the harbour wall until she reached the beacon at the far end. Then, as instructed, she waited.

She tried to lose herself in the breath-taking view over Lake Geneva. Even after years of living here in La Tour de Peilz she was still awed by the dramatic rise of the Alps on the opposite shore. Normally she would have been able to make her mind as calm as the sun-lit water in front of her, but anxiety broke her concentration like pebbles skipping on the surface of the lake. She could not believe that Thierry had selected such a public place. True, the low wall around the base of the beacon would partially block her from the sight of people in the harbour but she would be exposed to anyone out on the lake or in one of the buildings nearby.

Faith shivered at the thought of being on public display, but she did not leave. Instead she touched the strip of heavy white cotton that was tied around her wrist. It was her magic amulet. It had the power to transform her from her day to day self into someone to whom amazing things happened. After all, how many recently divorced, thirty-five year old Englishwomen found themselves standing on a harbour wall, looking out at the Alps and waiting for their lover to use them as he wished?

A slight breeze came in off the lake, making her aware that the summer was now over and the dress she was wearing was too thin for the autumn weather. She had chosen it because it was what she had been wearing the first time that Thierry took her, exactly three months ago.

She wanted to hug herself against the breeze but Thierry was probably already watching her, savouring the sight of her silhouetted against the sky, so she stood with her legs slightly apart, her chin up and her hands clasped demurely in front of her, offering him a promise from a distance.

She heard his footsteps on the stone behind her, confident, purposeful steps that were typical of the energy that Thierry put into everything, but she did not turn around. That was not how their game was played. He came up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back against him.

Bending his head close to her ear he said, “Do you trust me, Faith?”

These were the words that had started it all. They had become a ritual with them for meetings like this.

Faith gave the same reply she had always given: “Completely.”

Thierry ran his hands down her arms to her wrists, enclosing her in his strength.

“Show me that you are mine. Put on the blindfold.”

He released her hands and waited.

Faith undid the cotton strip that she wore on her wrist and refolded it. She held one end of the cloth in each hand and pulled it taut, making it a channel for the tension that she was feeling, then she raised it to her lips and kissed it. Thierry had taught her to do this. He had explained that, before a Mass, the priest will kiss the stole that he is about to drape around his neck, because it gives him time to reflect on the transition he is about to make from ordinary man to someone who could summon God.

As her lips touched the fabric, Faith thought about the summoning that she was consenting to by putting on the blindfold. She was calling up a side of herself that she had always kept hidden, had in fact been embarrassed to admit to: the side of herself that wanted to be worshiped, wanted to be subjugated, wanted to be stirred into a feeding frenzy of lust, wanted to lose her mind in the outpouring of her heart’s desire.

Faith raised her head to face the sun and reached up to tie the cloth around her head; willingly blindfolding herself in a public place, in the arms of a lover who required her complete trust and absolute obedience.

As soon as she completed the knot, everything changed. The cloth that denied her her sight also freed her from responsibility for what happened next. She was now both in the world and out of it at the same time. Her existence was defined by touch and taste and smell and sound and most of all, by desire.

“Thank you, my Blind Faith,” Thierry said, his mouth close to her ear.

Faith found Thierry’s Swiss-French accent exotic, capable of breathing new meaning into old words. His voice was gentle and confident and, best of all, edged with hunger for her.

Thierry pushed Faith back against the low wall that sloped inwards in a cone around the beacon, so that she was leaning backwards slightly. The wall came up to just below her shoulders; she could feel the rough stone against her back through the fabric of her dress, hard and unyielding. It made her smile.

“I recognise this dress,” Thierry said. He ran his hands up her body and cupped her breasts firmly, stroking her nipples with his thumbs. “It is the one you wore the first time I undressed you…” He undid the top buttons of the dress and pushed the fabric aside, exposing Faith’s breasts, “…except today you wear nothing beneath it, it seems.”

“Nothing at all.” Faith said and pushed her breasts upwards against his hands.

“Show me.”

For a heartbeat, Faith hesitated, uncertain what Thierry wanted.

“Guide my hand,” he said.

Like a ghost, Faith took his hand, slid it up along her thigh and placed it on her naked sex. Thierry grasped her firmly, pushing her upwards onto the balls of her feet and pressing one insistent finger between her labia.

Without the blindfold, Faith would have tried to wriggle free, but Blind Faith was free to spread her legs and open herself to her lover’s desire.

Thierry massaged her mound until she was so slick she could smell herself. Then he slid two fingers inside her. She rocked on them gently, unconcerned with anything but the sensation.

When she was feeling warm and desirable and safe, Thierry slipped out of her and pushed his fingers into her mouth. Faith sucked on them, taking them as deep as she could

Before Thierry, Faith had not enjoyed oral sex. She couldn’t see the point. Now of course, she could see nothing at all and had discovered the richness of heat and texture and smell that were available to her. She had learnt to enjoy the power and excitement of bringing Thierry to complete hardness with her mouth and to relish the movement of his hot smooth skin across her face.

“Faith, the wall behind you is topped by a steel railing. When I place your hands on the railing you will be spread against the beacon like a figurehead on a ship,” Thierry said. “I want you to hold the railing tightly with both hands.”

Thierry placed Faith’s arms along the top of the railings and stretched her out in both directions, so that her shoulders pulled back and her still-naked breasts rose. Quickly, almost impersonally, he used his feet to push her legs wide apart. Then he stopped touching her.

She listened hard for his next instruction but the only sound was made by wind in the rigging on the tiny fishing boats moored in the harbour behind her.

Faith wanted to call out. She wanted to let go of the railing and cover herself. She wanted to tear off the blindfold and take back control. Instead she gripped the railing tightly and waited.

Thierry would not desert her, she told herself. He would not leave her on display like this, available to anyone who came along. And yet, what if that was the experience he had in mind for her today?

Faith calmed her mind by recalling the promise that Thierry had made her when this strangeness started. “In you, Faith,” he had said, “I see a woman who has been starved of the sensual pleasures her mind and body deserve. If you will give me your trust, and with it, your obedience, I will feed your desires and you will open like a flower at dawn.”

If an Englishman had said that to her, she would have laughed, but Thierry was French and beautiful and she had wanted so much to believe him. So she had agreed and he had started her journey by taking away her sight.

She had never questioned him on what she was going to blossom into.

Seconds ticked by. Faith felt the breeze lift her dress and wanted to let go of the railing and prevent herself from being further exposed. But if she let go of the railing, she would let go of Thierry’s trust. She waited.

Suddenly she felt him covering her, engulfing her like a wave of energy. His big hands enfolded hers. His mouth worked on her neck as if he meant to consume her. He let his weight press into her, grinding her against the wall until she was literally breathless.

She relished his heat and strength but also recognised her relief that she had been right, this time, to hold on.

Thierry kissed her on the mouth, gently, slowly, holding her blindfolded head in his hands.

“You looked wonderful standing there, open and full of potential,” he said.

One hand left her face. She heard him unzip and her stomach clenched in anticipation.

He kissed her again on the lips, more urgently this time. Then he lowered his head and pulled one of Faith’s small breasts all the way into his mouth.

“Fuck me.”

Faith’s words flew out across the water like gulls rising. Once she would have cringed in embarrassment as much for the admission of need as for the crudeness of her language, but Blind Faith’s tongue was free.

“FUCK me.”

Thierry’s hands slid down her body, found the full flesh of her arse and lifted her up off the wall. Faith wrapped her legs around Thierry and, after a moment’s slick struggle, he entered her.

Faith gripped the railing, threw back her head, and let Thierry crucify her lust against the hard stone.

There was no finesse, no tenderness, just a furious rutting that hammered away at her senses summoning up a tide of warmth and release that almost drowned her.

By the time Thierry came inside her, Faith was hanging limply on the wall, unable to move or think or speak.

Thierry gently set her feet down on the ground and helped her to stand. Turning her so that she had her back to him, he re-buttoned her dress and made sure she was covered, then he held her in silence.

“Thank you,” Faith said.

Thierry gave her one final hug, and, as was his way, left her.

Faith listened until she could no longer hear his footsteps on the stone. Then she reached up, removed the blindfold and slowly came back to herself.

It was almost sunset but Faith did not want to linger over the spectacle of the scarlet sky. Vision returned her to the real world. A world where she wanted to be rid of the stickiness she could feel between her legs and at the top of her thighs; where she needed to lie in a bath and soothe the places she knew would bloom into bruises by morning; where Thierry was not just her lover but someone else’s husband.

Except, Faith thought, this world was no more, or less, real than the one she had occupied a few moments ago when she’d been spread wide and used hard.

Faith looked down at the strip of cotton she was holding. All she had to do was open her hand and let it fall and there would be no more Blind Faith.

Before her mind could decide what to do next, her fingers had wrapped the cloth around her wrist. Faith, smiled, turned away from the sunset, and headed for home.


© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from


A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Toying with Lily

In my experience, women who seek a sexually submissive role are often people who are dominant and forceful in their daily lives. They do not slide meekly into a submissive role. There has to be dominance before there is submission. This story gets you inside the head of a Dom with a fiesty Sub and shows what it takes to be in charge.

“Toying with Lily” appeared in “Hurts So Good” Alison Tyler (ed.), Unrestrained Erotica (Cleis).

It was a finalist for the 2009 John Preston Short Fiction Award. The John Preston award is given by the US-based  National Leather Association: International (NLA-I), a leading organization for activists in the pansexual SM/leather/fetish community

Continue reading

The Cellar

“The Cellar” is a very early story of mine. It’s more a scene than a story. Back then, I hadn’t learnt how to write dialogue and a plot was a luxury I felt I could do without. I offer it here because, whatever it may lack in craft, it makes up for in the sheer energy of brutal desire. When I wrote it I wondered what had become of me to have such things in my head. This was not the way I was brought up to regard women.

After it appeared on ERWA, I  got a few mails from women who told me that, on certain nights, when the need was strong, they shivered at the thought of being in this Cellar.

It got me thinking about the gap between what we are happy to imagine and what we would actually want to do and what this says about desire.


The Cellar

My hand hurts from spanking you. On one cheek. Not red now. Starting to turn blue black. Fifteen minutes of punishment. Hard, large hand with all my weight behind it. Your face is covered in tears and snot. Your hands, each tied to the elbow of the other arm, open and close with spasms of pain. You whimper because you can no longer scream. You have made my cock hard against your naked belly.

I lay you down on the cold wet stone flags of the cellar. You strain to keep your butt off the floor. I put my boot on your clit and grind you onto the stone. I slip the tip of my pointed boot into your cunt. Even now you can’t resist fucking it.

I kneel between your legs and tell you to be very, very still. My razor, open blade not safety, slides over your pussy, kissing the edges of your clit. No lubrication other than your sweat. The blade is so sharp that, if I were to cut you, it would be seconds before you noticed and even then the trickle of blood would be your first indication. Despite the pain from your bruised butt you lay flat and still on the flagstones.

So smooth, your skin.I test the lack of stubble with my tongue but avoid giving you the satisfaction of having your clit licked. Your cunt snatches at my tongue, pleading for attention. You know better than to speak.

Your eyes widen as I reach for the rope that will tie your legs to the rings in the flagstones. You are split, newly shaven, moist and swollen.

When the riding crop hits your mound your scream surprises even you. You bounce on your sore arse, unable to believe the pain. Again. Again. Again.

Red welts rise, making chevrons pointing to your clit. A final, vicious, slice through the air ends with the tip of the crop connecting with your clit.

It takes several seconds before you stop twitching.

I kneel, lift your buttocks off the floor, your shoulders still on the ground, your legs stretched by the ropes. You are trembling. Yet, pain-slut that you are, your cunt is wet as I slide into it.

My hips move rapidly, pounding your abused mound. In minutes I am ready to come I pull out and rest my cock on your clit as ropes of white cum spray up your belly.

I wipe my cock on your thighs.

I watch you from the top of the stairs. You are still humping air, seeking release, as I turn out the light and close the door behind me.


Normally, I write whatever story moves me at the time. “Thresholds” is one of the few stories that I wrote in response to a call for submission.

Lisabet Sarai and Seneca Mayfair, both strong writers of D/s stories put together an anthology that wanted to explore the potential for transcendence and spirituality in the bond between dominant and submissive. The result was “Sacred Exchange

“Thresholds” tells the story of a woman who’s life is transformed when she enters the place she refers to only as “The Room”. Here she becomes someone new. Someone who gives all she has. Someone who has finally found her way, through pain and release, to place that feels like home.


The phone in Elspeth’s little study rang only twice before she snatched it up.

“Twenty minutes,” he says. No greeting, no endearments, just a terse statement that she has been waiting for days to hear.

His voice alone is enough to make her wet. There is a quality to it, hard to define, easy to identify, that projects calm strength and the absolute expectation of obedience.

He never says more than those two words to her when he calls. They are an instruction. She knows that he may as well be ringing a bell. Even as she part of mind is saving her work on her computer and recalling the location of her purse she feels her nipples come to attention in anticipation.

“I am Pavlov’s bitch,” she thinks to herself, “hot to trot at the sound of her master’s voice”.

Her movements are hurried, not just because she is excited but because she has only twenty  minutes to reach the room they use: two minutes to Belsize Park Tube, a short ride to Camden Town and then a walk across Camden Lock to a lock-up under the railway arches that was once a garage and is now… she doesn’t have a word for what it is. Love nest? No, love doesn’t come into it. Torture chamber? Too grand. In her head it is The Room. Not her room or his room, just The Room. She has screamed in The Room. She has consecrated the floor with her blood. She has spent some of the best moments of her life there.

Checking herself in the hall mirror before she steps out, she is amused to see that there is no outward sign of what she is, or at least what she is when she gets the call. The mirror shows a woman in her forties: good legs, thickening waist, breasts just the right size to fill her cupped hands, long hair that was once black but is now splashed with silver. She looks like someone’s wife or someone’s mother. She has been both of those things. It is not until she lifts her hair to put it in the ponytail he requires, not until she feels her nipples rub against her blouse, that she glimpses, just for a second, what she now is: someone’s slut.

Belsize Park Tube is buried deep. Before they put the new lifts in, back when the doors where just a fretwork of metal that folded open and closed, she would watch the layers of earth passing her by and think of Alice falling in the rabbit hole. Now the descent is swift and sheathed in well-lit steel, yet she still feels she is leaving the real world behind as she falls towards her train.

Even a short journey on the Tube numbs her. So many people in so small a space and all of them trying to pretend that their fellow passengers don’t exist. She wonders if he ever travels by Tube. She has never asked him. If he does, she feels sure that there will be a space around him, created by his personal forcefield, his fuck-off-and-die stare.

He is so imperious sometimes that she wants to laugh. But she knows that the laughter is defensive, a way for her to pretend that he can’t rip her open with a look and consume her blood-soaked heart.

She met him at a book reading. She was one of three authors who had been chosen to boost the opening of “Between the Covers” a new bookshop specialising in erotic fiction. She wrote what she thought of as “bodice rippers with balls” and they sold well. She hated reading her work aloud; it felt silly and it made her nervous. Being nervous made her want to pee. There was of course a queue for the women’s toilets, but none for the men’s. “I’m a modern woman,” she thought, “I can use the men’s loo. It’s not as if it’s a urinal. The worst case is that they’ll have left the seat up.”

A delicious sensation of wickedness tickled at the nape of her neck as she stepped over the threshold. “If this is exciting then I need to get out more,” she thought. But it was exciting, being in a forbidden place.

She moved past the sink, opened the door to the stall, pulled down her knickers, and sat. Now of course all ability to pee deserted her. She wanted to leave but she didn’t want to have to come back, so she waited for nature to take its course.

Elspeth had the writer’s curse of a vivid imagination and it often led her to strange places. This time she found herself imaging men coming in here and refusing to sit. Choosing to stand and hold their cocks while they pissed. Why did they do that? Why not sit in comfort? And if they had to do it, why was their aim so bad? Maybe they played with themselves. What would that be like? Playing with yourself while peeing? She had never tried. Well why not? When in Rome pee as the Romans pee. She closed her eyes and let her fingers play on her clit. There had been so many times, just before orgasm, when she’d been worried that she might pee before he’d finished. Now she was trying to finish so she could pee. The thought made her feel wicked and strong. She was damn well going to do it. She was going to come and pee at the same time in the men’s loo of an up-market erotic bookstore and then she was going to sign books all evening and no-one would ever know.

It was one of those times when her clit was completely ready and the orgasm rolled across her just as the pee started to flow. She came quietly, sucking on her lip, making that small mewing sound that her husband had hated. “I feel like I’m strangling a kitten,” he’d said. Not that he had made her come that often. She leant back against the wall, letting her fingers stroke her doubly wet sex and enjoying the post-orgasm languor. She knew that her face was flushed. She smiled at what a slut she’d been. She was still smiling when she opened the door to the stall and saw him standing there.

She knew at once who he was: Adam Stone, one of the other authors giving a reading. He wrote bondage books with just enough intellectual muscle to win reviews in the Sunday Times. His last effort, “Igniting The Dark” had been made into a Channel 4 film. Elspeth envied his writing style and the content made her wriggle but she had wondered about what kind of man it took to think such dark thoughts and persuade others that it was art.

When she’d seen Adam’s name on the list of speakers, Elspeth had been excited. She had imagined talking with him over a glass of chardonnay, trading insights into the nature of erotica. She hadn’t expected to come face to face with him in the men’s toilet, with her face flushed and her fingers smelling of piss and cunt juice.

She wanted to say, “How long have you been standing there?” or to apologise for using the men’s loos. She wanted to know if he’d heard her come. How would he comment on that, “Do you come here often?” She listed all of these wants in a flash and discarded them. With a self-possession that amazed her, she held out her hand and said, “Hello Adam, I’m Elspeth Cairns.”

She was pleased with herself until Adam lifted her hand to his lips and sniffed. He knew. He’d been standing there listening. She couldn’t move, Adam’s eyes had pinned her to the spot. He sucked two of her fingers into his mouth. Her cunt spasmed and she stumbled forward against him.

Adam caught her with his free arm, holding her against him. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to fuck him, right there in the men’s loo. She wanted him to lift her up on to the sink and spread her legs and fuck her till it hurt. She wanted…

“You have a reading to give in five minutes,” Adam’s voice cut across her wants.

“You can leave here in three but you have to come first.”

His words sounded normal, sane, almost ordinary. Of course she had to come first. Part of her mind was shouting “Elspeth Cairns! What do you think you are doing?” The rest of her was flowing into Adam’s arms.

He pressed her back against the stall. Her wet fingers were now against his face. Her eyes were closed. He didn’t kiss her. Only his hands were touching her.

“Open your legs, Elspeth. Wider. Lean against me. Good. I’m going to lift your leg. Don’t wobble. Balance. Good.”

He was talking to her quietly as if coaching her in some act of gymnastics and she was going with it. It didn’t seem to her as if there was a choice. Her face was against his chest. His left hand had lifted her leg beneath the knee. His right hand pushed its way between her legs, his fingers homing in on her sex.

“Such wetness, Elspeth. Such ripe wetness.”

She felt pleased at that, smiled at his words. The smile turned into a grimace as two fingers entered her, warm, hard, insistent.

“Fuck my fingers, Elspeth. Rock against them. Good. Very Good. Two minutes left. Fuck harder, Elspeth. Good. You can do it.”

It was insane. But it was good. So very very good. And the most insane thing of all was not that she was fucking the fingers of a man she’d just met, not even that she was trying so hard to come, the most insane thing was that she wanted to come because she wanted to please him. Because she wanted him to continue to tell her that she had done well.

“One minute, Elspeth.”

She reached for his fly, wanting to feel him. Wanting perhaps to slide him into her.


His voice was suddenly cold. She felt as if she had been slapped.

“Come on my fingers, Elspeth. Do it now.”

The Elspeth she knew, the Elspeth she had been for the past forty years, should have slapped the man and told him to fuck off. The Elspeth that had risen up inside her in Adam’s grasp swallowed her anger and bore down upon his fingers.

Maybe he wanted to reward her. Maybe she’d just become slick enough. Whatever the reason, his fingers reached that tiny bundle of nerve endings that controlled the on/off switch to her mind.

She cried when she came. Cried against the front of Adam’s jacket.

She was still crying as he gently lowered her foot to the floor and helped her to stand. He tilted her head up towards his. His fingers smelled of her.

“Thank you, Elspeth. Now I need a piss and you need to get out front and do your reading. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

Then he stepped past her into the stall and closed the door.

How could he leave her like that? How could he take her like that? How could she let him? Why was she standing here calmly washing her hands and straightening her clothes?

She could hear him pissing. He was standing up of course.

“Elspeth. Elspeth. Are you there?”

It was Sophie, her agent. Elspeth moved quickly out of the loo and was shepherded into the shop to do her reading.

Later her agent said that she’d read with passion, but Elspeth didn’t register anything. She was on autopilot. Most of her attention was focused on the bizarre thing she had just done in the loo.

Adam arrived just as Elspeth was describing her heroine’s first struggle with the villain who would later become both hero and lover.

“Clarissa felt the knife against her throat and saw the look of triumph in Angelo’s eyes.

‘Release me or lose your manhood,’ she said.

Surprise rippled across Angelo’s face as the tiny blade that Clarissa had concealed in her sleeve slit the fabric of his codpiece. He stepped away from her, bending at the waist, staring in disbelief at the sliced material. Then he laughed. Laughed with his whole body. Laughed with his hands thrown out and his head back.

‘I love a woman with spirit. I shall return for you, My Lady.’

Before Clarissa could summon her guards, Angelo was gone, back out the window through which he had entered. Clarissa didn’t call the guards; she was too busy trying to identify the emotion she now felt. She was surprised to discover that it was disappointment.”

Elspeth felt embarrassed. The words were too trite and the emotion was too close to what had just happened. Except that Clarissa had said no for another eight chapters while she had been led like a docile horse within seconds of meeting Adam.

Suddenly she was angry with him. She couldn’t bear the thought of listening to him describe the bleak monologue of a woman struggling between her sense of dignity and propriety and her need to be tied and taken. She left. Left without signing a single book. Sophie had given her hell for that.

The next day a courier delivered a signed first edition of “Igniting The Dark” to Elspeth at her home. The card inside read, “You have so much potential, Elspeth. Come to me and I will help you achieve it.” Adam had left the number to his mobile.

She’d thrown the card away. Then retrieved it. Then locked it in her desk draw. Later she told Adam that she should have put it in a lead-lined box. It was a Kryptonite card. It made her weak whenever she came close to it. Two weeks later she had called Adam and her journey towards this Tube train began.

At Chalk Farm another wave of bodies flowed into the train, filling it to the point where strangers where standing as close together as lovers. Elspeth raised her hands and grasped the bar above her head, letting herself hang, legs slightly spread, her arms taking her weight, swaying gently with the movement of the train. She liked the way her breasts moved in this stance. It made her feel vulnerable and enticing.

Elspeth closed her eyes and imagined herself in The Room. Adam liked to tie her in this position. Sometimes he would blindfold her; most often he would not. He liked to circle her, eating her with his eyes, testing her readiness, sniffing her need. She had been tied like this the first time he had clamped her nipples. Adam had used bulldog clips, metal jaws powered by fierce springs. She had screamed. The pain was unbearable and irresistible. It went on and on, longer than her screams. Her pain became the centre of her consciousness; there was room for nothing else.

Adam’s voice, just behind her left ear, nudged her. “You like the pain, don’t you, Elspeth?”

She had shaken her head. Of course she didn’t like pain.

Adam’s fingers explored her slit. “Your cunt knows you like pain.”

She was slick. Slick. Sick. Slick. Sick. The words pattered against her mind like rain. She liked pain? What kind of sick person liked pain?

“Pain is real, Elspeth. Pain leaves no room for doubt. Pain drags you screaming into pleasure.”

He had entered her then, pushing deep into her arse in the way she had grown to love. When he was all the way in Adam had released the clamps. Skewered on his cock, like a butterfly in a display case, Elspeth had spent the next fifteen minutes learning just how much she loved pain.

The memory of Adam using the opening and closing of the clamps to keep time as he sodomised her bound and bruised flesh always made her gush. Always. Even here on this over-crowded train.

Elspeth opened her eyes. A young woman, pressed to within inches of Elspeth’s face by the human herd on this cattle transport, was looking at her, wide-eyed. Elspeth didn’t do women. Well, not often. Sometimes. To please Adam. It was not unpleasant but it wasn’t… necessary. Not in the way that pain was necessary. Not in the way that the weight of Adam’s foot on her neck was necessary. She knew her nipples were up and she suspected that she smelled of sex. The girl let the movement of the train edge her closer. Maybe…?

The train reached Camden Town; the girl fell briefly against Elspeth and then did not move away. All Elspeth needed to do was to stay on the train.

The doors whooshed open and a mechanical voice chanted “Mind The Gap. Stand Clear Of The Doors Please.” over and over, lulling the cattle as they pushed out of the train and along the platform. Elspeth let herself be carried away from the girl and on towards Adam.

She checked her watch as stepped out into the sunlit chaos of Camden High Street. She still had eight minutes. It was ridiculous of course, rushing just because Adam told her she had only twenty minutes to arrive. What if it took twenty-five? Would that be so bad? Yes it would. If she were late Adam would be gone. Of course, just because she was on time didn’t mean he would be there. Sometimes he made her wait. She hated waiting, hated it more than anything else he made her do. One of Adam’s skills was that he always knew exactly how long to make her wait for things.

Sometimes she resented the imperious nature of Adam’s call, living to his timescales and his priorities. More often she was amazed that she had the power to make him drop out of his world and into The Room.

Elspeth had often tried to imagine what it would feel like to pick up the phone and say,”Twenty minutes” in just that tone. She knew it was something she could never do and something that was as natural to him as breathing.

She had questions. Did he ever doubt that she would be there? Did he ring her because he wanted to, because he had to, or just because he could? And, the most tormenting question of all, did he call anyone else?

She knew that Adam would answer these questions honestly but she feared the answers and resented the weakness that prompted them. She also knew that all questions stopped in The Room. In The Room she knew her place – their place. In The Room she had learnt about pain and about letting go. In The Room she had discovered that some hungers can be fed but never sated. The Room was full of first times: the first time he had hit her; the first time she had begged, on her knees, for him to hit her again; the first time she had known for sure that she would always be his.

There were many things about The Room that she could not predict. She never knew if Adam would fall upon her immediately, or sit and talk, or start the long slow process of provocation and delayed release. The one thing she could be sure of was Adam’s attention.

In The Room, Elspeth is both inside and outside herself, both observer and player. Adam is pure focus. All of his attention is on her. She can feel its physical force. He becomes her centre of gravity, the moon that governs the tides of her need.

Elspeth laughs at her own imagery, startling two teens that are walking past her. “Middle-aged women are too old to laugh out loud”, their disdainful faces say. She wants to shout: “I am Adam’s Slut. I am free to do as I please. In moments I will be somewhere you will never imagine.” Instead, she quickens her pace, striding down to the canal path and then on to the railway arches that house The Room.

At the door she pauses, key in hand. Adam has asked her always to pause. “Never step carelessly over this threshold,” he said, “Always think about what you give up and leave behind, about what will happen to you here and about who you will become, then decide whether to enter.”

At first she had thought this slightly pompous in an amusing sort of way, but over the years the answers to these questions have changed. He has moved the threshold. Many times. As she decides once more to enter, Elspeth feels the heat starts to flow. It is not lust, nor pain, nor embarrassment, this heat. The closest explanation she can give for what she feels is that is her body’s anticipation of bliss.

Smiling she steps over the threshold, returning to the place that is now the closest thing she has to home.



© Mike Kimera 2002 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from



A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Other Bonds Than Leather

In real life, all kinds of people are in D/s relationships. They are not all young and perfectly formed. D/s relationships do not spring spontaneously into being.

In this story I wanted to consider how such a relationship might come into being between two people who are already friendly with each other and old enough to be cautious about what they are getting in to. I also wanted to highlight that the relationship is more important than the paraphernalia. I’ve had a lot of feedback from readers telling me that they recognize themselves in this story.

So, if you’ve never tried D/s, here’s a place to start and if you’re in the lifestyle, here’s something you might recognize. Either way, let me know what you think.



Other Bonds Than Leather

© Mike Kimera 2001



“Would I have to call you ‘Master’?”  Caroline says, doing an Igor impersonation as she twists the word, “because I don’t think I could do that without giggling.”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“But I thought the whole point of this Dom/Sub thing was to make me do things I don’t want to do.”

“No. The point is to make you do things you deeply desire and don’t dare to do.”

“What kind of things?” She’s still smiling, but with a real question in her eyes.

“That’s what we we’d find out together, Caroline. Isn’t that why you are here?”

“I’m here–against my better judgment if truth be known–because something about you tugs at me. I think it’s your voice. I’m perfectly sane until I hear your voice and then suddenly I find myself wanting…”

“Wanting what?”

“I don’t know.” She laughs again, nervously this time. “For you to like me? To give me your approval?” Her voice lowers. “To invite me into your world?”

“So being here with me isn’t sane?”

“Well, look at me,” she says, holding out her arms. “What do you see? An older, heavier, woman with big thighs and small breasts who ought to know better. I mean, I’m going to be a grandmother soon.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. I take her right hand and hold it in both of mine. I pull her closer and say, “What I see is a woman who intrigues me. An intelligent, articulate woman whose sensuality and strength show in everything she does.” I kiss her hand. “I see a woman who honoured my request not to wear underwear (she actually blushes at this) and whose thighs invite me to explore.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says, pretending to be cross and pulling her hand away. “Words like that, spoken like that… How am I supposed to make sensible decisions when you drip words like that into my mind?”

“Listen to your lust Caroline. It’ll tell you what to do.”

Suddenly she looks serious. “Promise you won’t just play with me, Jonathan. Don’t make me into a fool.”

I match her tone, looking straight into her eyes, “I want you to trust yourself. I want you to trust me. Let go. I promise I will catch you.”

I can’t read her expression as she rifles my face for signs of betrayal or insincerity.

She looks away and asks brightly, “So do you have a dungeon, oh, Masterly One?”

“Yes,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow, whether in disbelief or disapproval I can’t tell.

“Follow me, please,” I say. I don’t look back–but I’m pleased when I hear her on the stairs behind me.

“Holy Penguins, Batman! It’s the Batcave.” Caroline slaps one fist into her palm in a very believable impersonation of Robin.

I stay by the stairs, switching on the spotlights one by one.

She moves around the room slowly, as if she’s memorizing an exhibition at the museum.

She starts at the leather Cross of St. Andrew with its restraints at the four extremes of the X. Then she circles the stocks, adjusted to just the height for her head and hands. Next the leather hurdle, which she bends over playfully, looking back at me for comment. I switch on the next light.

“Good God.” She stares at the whips and collars and paddles hanging on the wall. “‘Fucktoys R Us’.”  Her eyes fall on the bench displaying dildos, buttplugs, restraints and gags. She’s like a sleepwalker now: her movements slow and her eyes going everywhere at once. She picks up an inflatable penis gag, and then drops it as if it were hot after she sees what happens when she squeezes the bladder. Her fingers move gently over the black silicon of the largest buttplug. When she turns to me, her nipples are erect under her summer dress, but her eyes are in shock.

“You… use all these?”

“Not usually all at the same time,” I say.

“Women let you tie them up and put these things on them–in them–and…” She’s speaking slowly. The reality of “my world,” the world she wanted to be invited into, is hitting her for the first time.

“Would you like to leave, Caroline? Shall I take you back upstairs? We can have a glass of wine before you go home?”

She shakes her head.

I switch on one more light and then switch off the rest.

In the centre of the circle of warm bright light is a gyniechair, complete with stirrups. It has straps at the wrists and neck.

Caroline stares. She has her back to me and is moving away from the chair as if she’s not aware she’s doing it.

I turn her gently by the shoulders until she’s facing me.

“Close your eyes please, Caroline.” My voice is calm, reasonable, compelling.

A small hesitation, a tremor of doubt, and then her eyes close.

I have to bend to kiss her. I hold her face in my hands, my thumbs gently tracing her cheekbones. My lips press hers–but it is her tongue that enters my mouth. She’s eager now. Her arms wrap around me; her whole body is trying to adhere to mine. My left hand is stroking her hair. Short, wiry, strong, sexy; her hair is a metaphor for the woman herself. The tension in her body passes slowly from anxiety to desire. I break the kiss but do not release her head from my hands.

“I want you to sit in the chair with your legs in the stirrups.” I let go and her head turns toward the chair.

“I want to explore the space between your thighs,” I say, leading her towards the circle of light.

She stops at the chair. We are in the struggle now, she and I; the dance has begun. I can feel her unspoken words pushing at me.

“I won’t tie you or gag you or blindfold you today, but I want you to do what I ask. If you decide not to, we will go back upstairs.”

I might lose her here.

A fire of anger that stirs my cock flashes through her eyes, but she suppresses it.

“If you hurt me, I’ll leave,” she says.

Touché. This is going to be interesting.

Caroline looks small in the chair. Without being told, she lifts her dress so that her sex is fully exposed. She has trimmed her pubic hair, but a defiant banner of grey-streaked curls covers her mons.

I stand between her brightly-lit legs and look intently at her sex. She squirms a little; uncomfortable at being so exposed.

“You look magnificent,” I say. Then, before she can reply, I say, “Please close your eyes and keep them closed. Keep your hands on the arms of the chair.”

She closes her eyes.

I count to ten. I know it will seem longer to her. She doesn’t speak. I smile: the dance has progressed.

I run my index fingers down the inside of her thighs. The skin is soft, getting softer as I reach the top. I stop just where the thigh joins the hip, both fingers on either side of her cunt but not touching it. Then I let go.

Her eyes are still closed. Good.

I unzip. Slowly. The sound is loud in the silence of the room.

My index fingers repeat their journey but this time lightly touching the outer labia.

I pull a condom from my pocket. I hold it close to Caroline so she’ll hear the packet ripped open and smell the latex. Then I lay it on the palm of her right hand like a promise. Her hand opens and closes on it; she says nothing.

On their third journey along her thighs my index fingers spread the plump outer labia wide. They don’t retreat this time but hold her open; she glistens like an oyster in the spotlight.

“Oh, God. Do it. Fuck me,” Caroline says.

I ignore her and kneel between her thighs.

Her labia are long enough to suck. I take each one into my mouth in turn, sucking hard to hold them there, then letting go.

“Don’t stop,” Caroline says. “Don’t you dare stop”.

Her clit is small but unsheathed now. I move the flesh around it with my fingers but leave it untouched. Then I turn my head and push my tongue as deep into her as I can. She coats my tongue and my cock throbs.

Still inside her, I turn the tip of my tongue upwards and try to scoop out her juices.

“Fuck, yes,” Caroline says.

I remove my tongue. It aches a little but it tastes wonderful.

I stand.

“Keep your eyes closed but give me the condom please, Caroline.”

If she keeps the condom the dance will end.

She opens her hand for me.

When she feels the rubber slide into her cunt she gasps. Her face telegraphs her concern. Despite her words earlier, she’s still not sure if she really wants to fuck. This is happening too quickly.

A second or two later she realises the condom is stretched over three of my fingers.

Her laugh turns to a moan as the fingers find her G-spot.

When my tongue flicks across her clit she literally bounces in the stirrups. Her come starts when I suck her clit into my mouth and hold it.

I knew she’d be loud. The sound and taste of her make me dizzy.

I withdraw my fingers and remove the condom.

She is still breathing hard when I move to stand behind her chair.

“What a wet cunt you have,” I whisper. “What a sweet tasting slit”

Then, bending forward, I push my juice-coated tongue into her mouth. She sucks. Hard.

When the kiss stops she says, “Thank you,” almost as if she were talking in her sleep.

“Open your eyes, Caroline”

She blinks at the bright light as I remove her legs from the stirrups and help her down from the chair. She leans into me and her hand goes to my erection. “May I?” she says, moving her hand along the shaft.

“Next time, perhaps,” I say and move her hand away.

“Why not?” she says in a tone that gives me a flashback of her as she must have been as a little girl, stamping her foot to get her way.

I push my cock back inside my jeans. “Because I want my first come to be inside you when you’re bound to that cross.” I point at the X-frame across the room.

She steps away from me.

“Is that a power play, Jonathon?” she says.

“No, it’s a fantasy. I want you completely open to me. I want to feel you give your whole body to me. When you are ready.”

“You are a strange man,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply.

Mimicking my earlier action, she lifts my hand and kisses it. “Thank you Jonathon. I enjoyed today. But I need time to think.”

I put my arm around her and lead her back to the real world.

After she leaves I go back to the playroom, strip and sit in the chair. I can still feel her presence. She has promised to come back, tomorrow, when she has had time to think.

I close my eyes and work my cock slowly.

I summon her taste and smell. I imagine her asking to be tied to my cross. I concentrate on the image of her being pummelled into the leather and groaning with pleasure.

Caroline believes there was no bondage today. No restraints were used. She does not yet know that there are other bonds than leather, that all restraint is a matter of will.

As my spend slides over my hand and onto my belly, I think that my new bonds feel good. I shall wear them yet awhile.

© Mike Kimera 2001 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.