Aphrodisia IV - Exploring the Boundaries (1 of 5)
Kristel St. Johns
kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com

Rating: EXTREME NC-17
Classification: SR
Archive: Yes. (Redistribute with permission only, and with 
headers and disclaimers intact.)
Spoilers: Umm, early Season 7, I guess.  Definitely "Amor 
Fati."
Timeframe: Undetermined Season 7
Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance, Smut, BDSM
Summary: A few weeks into their exploration of the D/s 
dynamic, Mulder and Scully test the limits of how far 
they're willing, and want, to go.

Author's Notes and Assorted Blatherings:

Consider yourself warned: from here on out, the BDSM acts 
and sex get a little rawer in the next couple chapters.  If 
you're of a delicate constitution, you may need to step 
aside. If you do decide to continue reading, please read
the notes at the end of the chapter before firing off any
knee-jerk emails.

Again, I want to thank my beta readers, Heather, Beth, 
Shelba, Tiff, Nancy, Brynna, Christy, Jen, Indi, Cal and 
Sybil.  I would also like to thank all those who have 
written in supporting the story and asking for the next 
installment.  Sorry it took so long, guys.

If you have questions about some of the subject matter 
herein, be sure to check out my resource links page on my 
website (http://www.geocities.com/kristeljohns) which has 
links to just about anything you could possibly need to 
know.  I would like to especially thank Indi for providing 
me with the "best of the best" list of links that I've 
used, as well as her fact-sheets an a couple topics which 
you can find on the resources page as well.

Feedback is welcomed at kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com

On with the story...

SPECIAL DISCLAIMER: This story contains graphic depiction 
of sexual activities between consenting adults, including 
BDSM-related activities. It is in no way, shape, or form 
intended for younger readers. If you are under the age of 
17 or sensitive to this kind of material, do not proceed. 
Thank you. 


APHRODISIA IV - Exploring the Boundaries

I stared into Scully's angry eyes as she told me, in no 
uncertain terms, to fuck off.

This was *not* good.

It had seemed so simple--some discreet public bondage in 
the form of a silver and black brocade corset and a chain 
around her waist, under her clothing, as we caught a movie 
and did some Saturday afternoon grocery shopping.  I should 
have known better, should have known it couldn't possibly 
be so easy.  On the way out of the movie theater, my cell
phone trilled.  A burglary and fire at the D.C.P.D. 
headquarters, resulting in the destruction or disappearance 
of months of carefully collected evidence on a case, and my 
carefully laid plan was all shot to hell.

Scully had begun glowering the moment the phone rang, and 
though she had made her way through the mess at the 
police headquarters with a stilted professionalism, her 
mood progressively darkened as the day aged into evening.  
I don't know whether her frustration over the destroyed 
evidence had her fighting me, or the fact she'd had to tend 
to the entire mess while still bound in the corset.  There 
hadn't been time or opportunity to remove it between the 
cinema and police station.

I hadn't been quite sure how to approach her as we drove 
back to my apartment.  If all had gone according to plan, 
we would have been happily playing by this point.  After 
several weeks of experimentation, we were starting to find 
our comfort level at last.  Scully had asked, quite 
specifically, that we make an attempt at anal sex that 
weekend, and I had agreed.  All in all, the day had started 
with the markings of a very pleasant session for us.  I 
thought we could pick up our play where we'd left off, lest 
we (or at least I) brood over it the rest of the weekend.  
But I hadn't counted on Scully's anger, striking like a 
storm-cloud.

We hadn't spoken on the drive back, each of us trying, 
instead, to let it go in our own ways.  Keeping our 
personal relationship out of our work wasn't a problem for 
us--keeping the work out of our personal time was.

"I'd like us to leave what happened today outside," I'd 
announced when the door shut behind us, gathering my 
dominant persona and donning it like a suit.  I always 
thought I sounded rather arrogant in that role, but 
Scully's opinion was the only one that mattered, and she 
obviously responded to it. "It's not going to do us any 
good to keep going over it, and I don't want to let it 
destroy the rest of the day."

It was true--I didn't want to dwell on it.  I was angry and 
frustrated and felt totally useless.  I was tired of 
feeling that way.  I wanted to lose myself in something 
better, something healthy and beautiful.  I wanted the 
comfort of Scully and the adoring devotion of Kat.

She didn't look at me, but instead stood with her back 
toward me, her posture tense.

"Would you mind if we picked up where we left off?" I 
asked, my tone hovering somewhere been entreating and 
commanding.  To a certain degree, I suppose condescension 
was unavoidable in my role, but I tried to temper that by 
being studiously polite in my dealings with Scully in her 
submissive role.  What I had told her our first weekend 
playing together still held true--in submitting to me, she 
was giving me a gift.  She was entrusting me with herself 
at her most vulnerable, and she deserved my respect for 
that.

No answer.  Shit.  Was that a sullen silence, or 
acquiescence?  According to our agreement, which we'd 
worked on clarifying over the last few weeks, if we weren't 
on official FBI business on Saturdays, we were in our D/s 
roles.  That meant the second we left the police 
headquarters, I had the right to resume my role as 
Dominant.  Back in my apartment with no other business to 
attend to that evening, I was in charge again.

The question was--were we in our roles?  How did we 
delineate between our scene-play and our other selves?  
We'd been forced, abruptly, to become Mulder and Scully in 
the middle of our play--what was proper form for going back 
to being Master and Kat?

From my coat pocket, I withdrew the leather and steel 
collar that had been in the car.  I didn't make her wear it 
in public, but when we were out and about on Saturdays, I 
did have her hold it in her lap in the car.  This, at 
least, was one way of establishing our roles.  I stepped 
toward her, carrying the collar before me.  The rings 
jingled against the steel band.

"Take off your dress, Kat.  We're inside now and you're not 
allowed to wear it in here."

That was the moment she looked at me at last.  It wasn't a 
good look.  Her eyes dropped for a moment to the collar in 
my hands, and then she spoke.  Her response had been 
explicit and the suggestions she made as to what I could do 
with myself anatomically impossible.

Scully had told me quite clearly that when we were in her 
roles, she did not want me, as her Master, to take no for 
an answer.  But again, I didn't know if I could assume we 
were in our roles.  If I were to abide by the letter of out 
agreement, we were, but this was the first time she had 
openly defied me, and I wasn't quite sure why she was doing 
it.  Was she simply not in the mood, and would I be an 
insensitive prick if I pushed the issue? 

I had to remember she did have her safe-word.  And I knew 
she knew the word and its purpose, knew it was her 
immediate out if she chose to use it.  If she didn't want 
to play, she could very easily end it, and she hadn't yet.  
Did she simply need to let off steam?  If I decided not to 
push the D/s play, would I be helping her or disappointing 
her?

The fact was, I wanted to play.  I wanted to forget the 
defeat we'd suffered today and lose myself in something 
better.  She had her safe-word--it was my reassurance, my 
guarantee.  If she didn't intend to use it, I was in my 
rights to push the issue.  Saturday was scene-time, and 
barring the handling of any non-scene business, I was in 
control from the moment we awakened Saturday morning until 
we went to sleep at night--that was our arrangement.  
Unless she used her safe-word, I didn't have to heed her 
refusals.

A voice of doubt within me asked if I was using the fact 
Scully hadn't used her safe-word as justification for the 
fact *I* wanted to push the issue.  I wanted to see how far 
I could go, wanted to bend her to my will.  I was afraid 
that we were perhaps carrying our frustrations over the 
virtual defeat of our carefully built case over into our 
play.  Perhaps that was why we both wanted to fight.  Was 
bringing that frustration into our play a healthy outlet, 
or would it introduce something dark and unpleasant into 
the heretofore pure fantasy in which we'd been playing?

In either event, I didn't have much choice.  I had an 
obligation to Scully--had made a commitment to dominate 
her, even when she resisted.

"I told you to take off the dress," I said again, calmly, 
firmly.  Dominating Scully was not a matter of strength or 
force--it was a matter of will.  Could I get inside her 
head and make her believe she had to obey?  Could I project 
the confidence she needed to surrender?  My outward 
demeanor in no way matched the doubt I felt over the 
situation inside.  "I want to see the pretty corset you've 
got on."

"You mean this fucking corset I've been in all day?  Forget 
it," she replied, her chin jutting out.  "I want to take it 
off.  Unlace it," she commanded imperiously, presenting her 
back to me again.

"The corset stays on until *I* take it off.  Now, either 
remove the dress, *Kat*, or use your safe-word and end the 
scene," I lowered my voice to a threatening growl.  
"Because if you don't, I'm going to take that fucking dress 
off you myself and I just might blister your ass while I'm 
at it.  Take it off...*now*."

Something sparked in her eyes, a glimmer of arousal she was 
trying hard to mask beneath her anger.  Was I taking this 
in the right direction, then?  Was it not enough for her to 
willingly yield to me tonight?  Did she need me to force 
her submission from her?  God, could I do it?  What if I 
went too far?  What if I hurt her?

"Fuck you," she answered scathingly as she tried to push 
past me on her way to the bedroom.  That was it--I'd made 
sure she knew she could call it off, but she intentionally 
wasn't using her safe-word, and therefore, I had an 
obligation to subdue her.  By her refusal to yield or speak 
the safe-word, *she* had chosen how this scene would play 
out.  I caught her arm roughly and jerked her to my chest.

"You think I won't do it?" I demanded, a hint of humor in 
my voice as though her defiance amused me.  I let the 
collar hang loosely over my wrist while I caught her chin 
and insistently pushed it up until I could stare into her 
eyes.  "You think I won't force you?  You think I'll just 
allow you to get away with this behavior?  Think again, 
*Kat*." I lowered my voice ominously and placed the 
emphasis on her submissive name, hoping she'd get the 
message; this was all still part of the play and I would 
still accept it should she choose to end the game.

She tried to push away from me with her hands on my chest, 
so I grabbed both her wrists, stilling her movements.  I 
transferred one of her wrists into the hand that held the 
other and gripped both of them tightly in my fingers, 
pulling them up over her head.  I nearly winced when I 
realized my hand could encircle both her wrists, such was 
the size difference between us.  Sometimes it was easy to 
forget how physically small Scully is, because she seems to 
fill a room with her presence.

She began to struggle, trying to pull away from my grasp, 
and I tightened my hold until she flinched.  With my free 
hand I grabbed the collar still hanging on my wrist and 
carefully maneuvered it around her neck.  The band of steel 
on the outside had just enough give to open enough to 
encircle her neck, but when released, it regained its solid 
circular shape.  Something flickered in her eyes, her tense 
posture loosening for an instant, and I thought perhaps she 
was going to yield, but then the look was gone and her body 
was ramrod straight once more.  I left the collar hanging 
around her neck without fastening it, because doing so 
would require me to release her.  Instead, I began pulling 
roughly at the buttons of her dress, one of those I had 
purchased during our trip to Philadelphia.  I could hear 
threads popping, and some distant part of my brain 
registered the cliche--I was quite literally tearing the 
dress from her body.  Beneath it, she wore nothing but the 
corset and chain I had bound her with.  I could feel her 
nipples, pebble-hard through the soft fabric, and when I 
had opened the dress to her waist, I reached inside and 
grabbed her breast, squeezing firmly enough to make her 
gasp.

"These are *mine*, Kat," I growled in her ear.  "You gave 
them to *me*.  And you are *not*," I emphasized the word 
with another hard squeeze of her tender flesh, "allowed 
to tell me 'no,' got it?"

I grabbed the hair at the back of her head and jerked her 
head backward before I released her wrists.  She 
immediately lowered her arms, and with one hand, I pushed 
the dress off her shoulders so it fell from her body and 
pooled at her feet.  Her bare body was hot and tense 
against mine, the scent of her arousal rising in waves 
between us.  With her hands free, she tried to push away 
from me again, but my grip on her hair limited how far she 
could go, and any attempt to struggle only caused her pain 
from pulling her hair against my grasp.  She glared up at 
me, her eyes defiant.

"We're going to the bedroom," I announced, "where you are 
going to lay down and spread your legs so I can fuck you.  
And then we're going to talk about your behavior.  Now, are 
you going to walk, or do I have to throw you over my 
shoulder and carry you?"

"You wouldn't dare," she spat and renewed her struggles.  
They weren't full strength; I knew Scully and knew she 
could and did fight much harder than this.  She could 
easily hurt me if she tried--I was hardly half-trying, and 
I was intentionally leaving her plenty of openings to get 
her shots in if she needed to.  It was just one more clue 
she wanted me to conquer her.  Fine.  I was game for that.

Within seconds I had bent down, pressed my shoulder against 
her solar plexus, and lifted her with an arm around her 
thighs.  She could only struggle so much without causing me 
to dump her on the floor, but that didn't prevent her from 
pounding on my back and coming dangerously close to kicking 
me in the groin.  I could feel the dampness of her pubic 
hair against my shoulder.  I knew the position couldn't 
possibly be comfortable in the stiff corset, but she hadn't 
left me a choice.

I raised my free hand and slapped her hard on the ass.  She 
yelled, outraged, but didn't stop pounding on my back.  I 
followed the first slap with several hard swats, then 
dumped her unceremoniously on the bed.  She scrambled to 
her knees, her face flushed and her hair wild.  As she 
stared at me with combined anger and arousal, I slowly 
began to undress.  I peeled my T-shirt over my head and 
tossed it aside, then unfastened my belt and fly, pushing 
my jeans and underwear down my legs as I simultaneously 
kicked off my shoes.  My erection jutted forward 
demandingly, and her eyes dropped to it before she looked 
back up into mine.  She could have run at any time while 
I was stripped, but she stayed there, watching me intently.  
It wasn't until I was finished that she resumed her 
defiance.

As I approached the bed, she began to crawl backward, away 
from me.  She was just about ready to slip off the opposite 
side when I lunged at her and caught her around the waist, 
pulling her forward.  I dragged her toward me then flipped 
her roughly onto her back, straddling her thighs while she 
squirmed and attempted to free herself.  There was no way 
she would remain still long enough for me to bind her or 
cuff her, and no way I could do so effectively if she 
struggled, so anything I did here would have to be 
accomplished by muscle power alone.  Luckily, at the 
moment, I had the upper hand--literally.  I caught her 
wrists and attempted to insinuate myself between her 
thighs, but her frantic wriggling made it impossible.  I 
ended up pinning her entire body to the bed with mine, 
crushing her.

"Either give it up or say the word, Kat!" I snarled, 
getting in her face.  She glared up at me.

"Fuck.  You," she said slowly and succinctly.  That was it-
-I'd given her plenty of opportunities to end the game.  I 
again gripped both her wrists in one hand and with the 
other began to traverse her body.  The rough brocade of the 
corset and the cold steel of the chain around her waist 
created a tactile juxtaposition against the heat of her 
flesh.  Her soft curves were emphasized and exaggerated by 
the corset, the dip of her waist even more severe, the 
swell of her hip more dramatic.  I remembered how, when I'd 
put it on her that morning, I'd been so enamored of the 
sight I'd bent her over where she stood, holding her hips 
and keeping her balanced while I fucked her.  She had 
braced her hands on the wall and moaned loudly until I had 
finished, but she hadn't come--the angle had been 
impossible for reaching her clit.  When I was done, I'd 
turned her around and pinned her to the wall, going down 
and sucking her clitoris while our combined fluids leaked 
down her thighs.  She had climaxed loudly, grinding her 
mons to my face.

Her movements beneath me dispatched the memories of that 
morning.  Her breasts hung over the top of the garment, 
pushed up and forward, as soft and yielding as the rest of 
her body was tense and stiff.  If I fucked her right now, I 
knew she'd be exquisitely tight with the tension of the 
struggle.  But first, I had to overcome her resistance.  I 
played with her breasts leisurely with my free hand, 
dipping my head to capture one nipple as she writhed to get 
free.  I rolled off her body, not releasing her wrists, and 
slid my hand to the juncture of her tightly clenched 
thighs, attempting to force my fingers between them.  They 
were too tightly closed to allow any play.

"Spread your legs," I muttered against her ear, running my 
lips over her cheek.  Her only response was more struggles 
and grunts of effort as she pulled against my grasp.

My hand returned to her breast, my fingers slippery with 
the moisture that had seeped into her pubic hair.  I took 
one nipple between my fingers and pinched it until she 
gasped.  "I said spread your legs," I repeated more firmly.

"No," she panted, thrusting up with her torso in an attempt 
to push me away.

"What did you say?" I asked, taking the other nipple and 
giving it the same treatment as the first, refusing to stop 
squeezing until she had whimpered.

"I said 'no!'"

"Wrong answer, Kat," I said roughly, and pinched her hard.  
Nipple pain, we had discovered over the intervening weeks, 
was a turn-on for Scully.  She'd seemed stunned when she 
had admitted to it and yet the proof was undeniable in the 
form of her moist arousal.  With that realization, we were 
gradually coming to define the boundaries between "good" 
pain and "bad" pain.  "Good" pain was euphemistically 
referred to among the S&M types as "heightened sensation" 
to avoid the negative connotation that came with the word 
"pain," but Scully had scoffed at the phrase.

"It's pain, all right," she had said with a wry smile 
during one of our Sunday morning debriefings.  "Just 
because it feels good doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.  Or 
just because it hurts doesn't mean it doesn't feel good.  
Whichever."

The circular reasoning went unanalyzed.  Neither of us had 
felt any overwhelming need to apply logic to that 
particular statement.

As I pinched, perhaps as hard as I had ever done so, she 
squealed, and against my legs I felt her thighs go slack as 
she writhed to escape the pain.  Before she could clench 
them again, I thrust my hand between and pushed three 
fingers into her slick sex.

"Ooh!" she moaned, her back arching.  She attempted to 
press her thighs back together, but my hand was already 
there, my fingers pumping in and out of her body.

"Mine, Kat," I said forcefully against her ear, making my 
words deliberately crude.  "This pussy is mine."

"NO!" she shouted, her struggles taking on new energy.  She 
almost succeeded in throwing me off, but I gripped her 
wrists tighter and curled my fingers inside her, pressing 
hard against her g-spot while my thumb found her clit and 
began to grind mercilessly against it.

"That's the wrong answer," I told her again.  "The proper 
answer is 'Yes, Master.'  Got it?  Now, say it."

"No! No, no, no!" She muttered, her head thrashing wildly 
back and forth.  Shit, I was really starting to dislike 
that word.  In any other circumstance, to your average 
sensitive new-age guy like myself, "no" means "No, hands 
off NOW, sumbitch!" But this wasn't any ordinary 
circumstance.  The D/s element meant Scully had 
relinquished her right to say "no."  Actually, that's not 
true--she could say it all she wanted, could sing it in 
Gregorian chant if it floated her boat, but she had 
released me of my obligation to heed it.  At this point, 
anything that happened had been consented to in advance, 
and the only means of withdrawing consent was her safe-
word.  This knowledge, however, did nothing to eradicate 
the immediate instinct to remove my hands from her body and 
take myself to the other side of the room until "no" became 
"yes" once again.

Fuck it, I thought irritably.  If I was going to do this, I 
was going to do it right.  If she was fighting without 
using her safe-word, then I had a responsibility to subdue 
her, to overcome her struggles and force her to yield to my 
will.  That I might enjoy doing so was secondary and could 
be analyzed later, at my leisure.

I knew I would only win her acquiescence once I had worn 
down her ability to keep up the fight.  I pressed hard with 
my thumb once more on her clit and she came explosively, 
growling in her throat, her body clenching and shuddering 
around my fingers.  When the tremors had subsided, she lay 
limply, as though stunned for a long moment.  I took the 
opportunity to release her wrists, knowing her hands had to 
be going numb by that point, and conscious I could very 
easily be bruising the thin flesh over the slender 
protuberance of her bones.  I was about to crawl over her 
body and position myself between her thighs when she came 
abruptly and unexpectedly back to life--I should have known 
it would take more than an orgasm to put an end to her 
resistance.  She pushed me away roughly and slithered out 
from beneath my body in a second.

No sooner was she on her feet than I was after her, 
pursuing her to the far side of the room with a few 
strides.  I pinned her to the wall and lowered my head to 
her neck and shoulders; kissing, licking, biting.  She 
groaned, pushing helplessly against me even as her knees 
sagged.

"You can fight harder than that," I taunted her.  "I know 
you can.  You want to get away?  Just try it."


End of Part One of Five

Aphrodisia IV - Exploring the Boundaries (Part 2 of 5)
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns
kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com

She went wild, thrashing in my grip, trying to pull her 
wrists from my hands.  She thrust against me with her body 
to push me away, but I braced my feet and stood firm, 
keeping my legs between hers to protect myself from her 
knees should she decide to lift them.  Every thrust of her 
body rubbed roughly against my cock, heightening my own 
arousal.

"Come on, keep going!  Fight me!" I snarled at her, forcing 
her arms up and apart until she was spread-eagled against 
the wall with my cock pressing against the stiff fabric of 
the corset over her belly.

It was a long moment of struggling before she went limp in 
my grasp, panting hard.  That had been my goal, to provoke 
her into expending her energy in one quick, hard struggle.  
If she felt she had put up her best fight, it would make 
acquiescence that much easier.  I continued lavishing 
kisses and licks upon her sensitive neck above and below 
the collar, the entire while, making it clear she was 
fighting against me, not I against her.  By projecting an 
attitude of indifference toward her struggles, I was 
telling her I was confident I would win.  The fight was 
futile because the outcome was predetermined.

"Say it, Kat," I muttered against her flesh, nipping the 
tendon where shoulder met with slender neck.  "Say 'Yes, 
Master.'"

She jerked her head away, shaking it in denial.  She was 
panting as though she had just run a marathon, a thin sheen 
of sweat glistening on her skin.  Wrapping my hand firmly 
around her upper arm, I dragged her over to the dresser and 
thrust her belly-first against the edge.  With a hand on 
her back, I pushed her shoulders down until she was bent 
over with her face mere inches from the mirror and my leg 
wedged between her thighs.

"Say it!" I growled, grabbing my cock with my other hand 
and guiding myself to her entrance.  From my vantage point, 
I could see both the exaggerated hourglass curve of her 
figure in the corset and her reddened face in the mirror.  
Her blue eyes were bright and febrile.  I thrust forward 
with my hips, pressing my way into her exquisitely tight 
core.  Her eyes widened and a loud gasp spilled from her 
lips, her hands clenched into fists on the surface of the 
dresser.  Pausing only a second to take in the tableau, I 
began to fuck her with rapid, short jerks, not penetrating 
deeply enough to give her any significant pleasure.  I held 
her hips tightly with my hands to keep her still when she 
tried to press backward and deepen the thrusts.

"Is this what you want?" I asked, bending over to bite 
firmly on the back of her neck.  She whimpered loudly, the 
reflection of her face contorted with excitement and 
frustration.

"Nooo..." she moaned.  I slid one hand between her arm and 
her body to play with her breast, tweaking the nipple 
gently, rubbing softly.  She bit her bottom lip, squeezing 
her eyes tightly closed.  With my other hand I grabbed her 
hair and pulled her head back.

"Open your eyes, Kat," I demanded roughly.  "Look at the 
mirror.  See that?  That's your Master fucking you, whether 
you want it or not, see?  I can take you when I want and 
where I want, because you belong to me!"

She shook her head in adamant denial even as I felt her 
muscles clench around my cock in response.  I chuckled 
gruffly.  "You like that, don't you, Kat?  You like knowing 
I own you, like me taking you no matter how hard you fight.  
Does it turn you on, Kat?  Does it make you hot?"

Her groan might have been a denial, but it was 
unintelligible.  I gave a sharp stab of my hips before 
resuming my shallow thrusts.  

"Say it, Kat.  Tell me how much you like me forcing you, 
fucking you."

I bit her neck again, not particularly careful to be 
gentle.  I could see light red teeth imprints where I had 
bitten her before.  I could see the shifting and flexing of 
the muscles in her back and shoulders with each jerk of my 
hips.  She tried to thrust back, so I let go of her hair 
and breast to hold her hips steady again.  I could feel the 
tension mounting in my own body, knew I would have to cut 
loose soon or explode.  This battle of wills had to end 
quickly.  I concentrated on my breathing, trying to slow my 
racing heart, to hold out a while longer.

"Oh, God!" she gasped, whimpering in frustration.  The 
whimper escalated to a low moan of despair.

"What's that?" I asked, taunting her.  "You want it harder, 
Kat?  You're not going to get it until you say what I want 
you to say.  Call me Master and tell me how much you like 
getting fucked."

She didn't answer, biting her lip stubbornly.  This 
struggle had become more of a battle of pride for her now--
the only way to get what she wanted was to yield and admit 
all her previous struggling had been futile, that she was 
vanquished.  If I was lucky, her desire would win out over 
her pride and she would surrender--that was the point, 
after all, for me to force her surrender from her.  But if 
her pride was too strong, there was no way I could possibly 
defeat it, and I knew it.  Ultimately, it had to be her 
choice to give in.

"Yes..." she finally whispered, hanging her head.

"Then say it."

She groaned again, a sound of torment and longing.  It was 
a long moment, punctuated only by my shallow, rapid 
thrusts, before I heard her whimper, "Please..."

"No!  Lift your head, Kat.  Look in the mirror, look me in 
the eyes and say it."

Another long moment of tension, and then her body slumped 
as if all her tension fled from her at once.  I could feel 
the fierce grip of her sex on my cock relax, and she lifted 
her head weakly from the dresser.  She stared at me for a 
long moment, then finally murmured, "I like it when you 
fuck me."

I couldn't tell if the redness of her face was arousal or 
effort or embarrassment, but I wasn't going to give her an 
out.  My initial suspicion that many of the things she had 
indicated she "might be willing to try" on the survey I'd 
given her were actually activities she wanted and just 
couldn't bring herself to ask for was too strong.  But I 
couldn't go on guessing what she actually wanted, and I 
wasn't in the mood to let her off the hook.  I needed to 
hear her say this was all right, this was what she wanted.

"Even when you struggle?  Do you like me forcing you?"

Another sharp jab, another low cry, and then back to the 
maddeningly steady rhythm.  I had to grip her hips hard to 
keep her from moving in counterpoint to my thrusts.  I met 
her eyes in the mirror again and almost lost control when I 
saw the glazed look of passion there.  Whatever was 
happening, she was as turned on as I'd ever seen her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, an expression of dismay 
crossing her face.  I could understand that--I was asking 
her to admit to a fantasy of a concept utterly abhorrent to 
any woman, or man for that matter.  But there was a 
difference--to enjoy surrendering to me, even being forced 
by me, the person to whom she'd given express permission to 
use her body as I wished under a pre-arranged set of 
circumstances did not in any way condone rape or imply a 
desire to be raped.  There was always the fact that with a 
single, specific word, I'd cease immediately.

"Say it, Kat," I growled, bending over so that my breath 
was hot against her ear.

"Yes, Master," she said after a moment of an internal 
struggle I watched play out on her face.  "I like this.  I 
like you forcing me, even when I struggle."

"Tell me what you want.  Ask me for it."

Another long moment of silence.  I gritted my teeth and 
wondered if she realized what she was putting me through, 
forcing me to hold off until I had her complete 
capitulation.

"Ask me, Kat!  Now!"

A shuddering sigh..."Please, Master, fuck me.  Hard."

I jerked out of her body, pulled her away from the dresser, 
and pushed her back down onto the bed in a series of rough, 
abrupt movements.  She fell back on the bed as I pushed 
her, limbs spread and eyes stunned.  Gripping her knees and 
wrenching them apart, I pushed between her thighs and 
within seconds I was buried in her tight, wet heat, 
breathing a ragged sigh of pleasure.  Her moan of pleasure 
echoed in my ears.

As I sank into her, she closed her eyes and turned her face 
away.  I couldn't allow it, couldn't allow her to hold back 
even a piece of herself from me.  I took her face in my 
hands and forcibly turned her head.

"Open your eyes," I growled, thrusting deeply.  Her eyes 
fluttered open, looking dazed.  "Who do you belong to?"

"You..." she whispered weakly, her defiance draining from 
her in a matter of seconds as I ground my pelvis against 
hers.   She closed her eyes with my next thrust before 
snapping open again as she recalled my mandate.

"Say it again."

"I belong to you, Master.  I love you, Master."

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed for a moment.  It wasn't just 
power she was placing in my hands--it was responsibility, 
obligation to see her needs and desires met by responsibly 
wielding the authority she was given me.  I loved her madly 
for that gesture of faith.

Keeping my movements steady as I slid in and out of her 
welcoming body, I kissed her softly.  A soft whimper 
escaped her lips as I increased my thrusts and I stared 
into her eyes as I cut loose, pumping into her body harder 
and faster.  After a moment, I murmured, "Reach down and 
rub your clit.  Bring yourself off.  You've got until I'm 
finished, or you're out of luck."

I wasn't going to make the task easy for her.  She had to 
struggle to wedge her hand between our bodies, and the 
mobility of her fingers was limited by the tight space.  
Normally, this wouldn't be something I would make her do--I 
was always very conscientious of her pleasure while we 
played, using my ability to bring her pleasure as an aspect 
of my power over her.  But my primary dominance over her 
was always sexual, and I had to emphasize I could deny her 
pleasure as easily as give it.  I didn't *have* to help 
her, didn't *have* to please her; doing so was a reward for 
her obedience that could easily be revoked.

At the same time, I was careful to "accidentally" bump her 
fingers with my pelvis each time I thrust, adding more 
pressure to her own efforts.  My own rapidly mounting 
excitement, coupled with the arousal of the struggle that 
had gone before, was quickly pushing me past the edge.  It 
seemed only seconds had passed before I was groaning, 
burying my face against her neck as I poured myself into 
her.  I was disappointed to discover her fingers were still 
wiggling frantically against her clit, and I could hear her 
soft moan of frustration.  Just because I had decided not 
to help her didn't mean I hadn't wanted her to succeed.

I rolled off her body and lay resting a moment, trying to 
work through my mind what would come next in this scenario.  
She had defied me--I couldn't let that slide.  Scully 
wouldn't *want* me to let it slide, wouldn't want me to go 
lightly on her.  We'd made a commitment, between the two of 
us, to make this thing real, if only for one day a week.  
But I had never considered she would ever defy me this way, 
and I didn't have the first fucking clue as to what to do 
about it.

I couldn't help but laugh silently at myself.  Being 
dominant was well and good when my submissive was perfectly 
willing and compliant, but not half so much fun if she made 
me work for it.  I should have realized I wasn't the only 
person with an obligation to push boundaries in this 
relationship.  Just as I tested Scully's limits, so could 
she test mine.  It wasn't just a matter of pushing how far 
she would go to submit to me, it was a matter of pushing to 
see how far I would go to dominate her.

I finally sat up and turned to look at her.  She lay with 
her eyes closed, her breathing slow and deliberate.  Her 
lips were drawn in a tense line that indicated her 
trepidation, if not her sexual frustration.

"Look at me, Kat," I said softly.  Her eyes slowly opened 
and met mine.

"I want you to go into the bathroom and clean up," I said 
firmly.  "While you're doing that, I want you to think 
about why you defied me tonight.  When you're done, we'll 
have dinner and discuss what happened and why it happened.   
Then I'll decide what to do about it.  Now go."

She was still laying on the bed, her brow wrinkled in 
consternation, when I rose from the bed, pulled my pants 
back on, and left the bedroom.

*     *     *     *     *

There had only been a handful of times I had demanded 
Scully make our meals during our Saturday playtime, and 
those times were usually done as a form of discipline for 
some minor offense.  For example, a couple weeks earlier, 
while playing with her, I'd instructed her to remain 
still, denying her permission to move without actually 
binding her.  She'd moved anyway (admittedly, remaining 
still while one runs a fur-covered mitt down your ribs can 
be a bit of a challenge) and as a result had been 
"punished" by making dinner that night.  For the most part, 
however, she was my submissive, not my servant, and I had 
never wanted to give her the impression I would take 
advantage of the control she had given me to acquire a 
housekeeper.  Therefore, I reheated the previous night's 
lasagna in the microwave and sat at the kitchen table with 
a can of soda while Scully finished in the bathroom.

I needed time to come to terms with the fact I had no 
choice but to punish her disobedience.

When Scully and I had first started negotiating the D/s 
relationship, I had told her I wasn't a sadist.  The truth 
was, at the time I hadn't been sure I didn't have sadistic 
tendencies, but I had been appalled by the idea I might 
have them, and I was determined I wouldn't indulge them if 
I did.  The idea of willfully inflicting pain upon Scully 
was completely unthinkable, abhorrent to me.  That's not to 
say erotic pain was out of the question--such as the nipple 
play we regularly performed, playing on already sensitive 
nerve centers to increase their sensitivity.  It might 
hurt, in that it's intense enough to be nearly unbearable, 
but it doesn't *hurt* in that any sort of physical harm is 
done.  At least, not the way we were playing--there were, 
of course, extremes to which the theme could be taken.  
They were activities in which many people participated and 
enjoyed immensely, however, I doubted my ability to visit 
those extremes with Scully, or if she'd even be interested.

At any rate, there's a world of difference between pinching 
her nipples and getting off on it and strapping her ass and 
getting off on it.  So often one assumes Dominance and 
sadism go hand in hand.  In popular myth, a Dominant is 
always just waiting for the right excuse, the tiniest hint 
of disobedience, to pounce upon the hapless submissive and 
trump up a punishment to fulfill his sadistic inclination.

Spanking her on our first official Saturday as Master and 
Kat had scared me--not that I was afraid I had hurt her.  
I'd been on the receiving end of some pretty hard whippings 
and knew a spanking, while it might burn, did no damage.  
No, what frightened me was that I had become aroused during 
the process, which Scully had been quick to point out.  I 
had shrugged it off at the time, not really wanting to deal 
with the implications at that moment, but in the days 
following the event, the fact had haunted me.

Did the hard-on mean I had gotten off on causing Scully 
pain?  Did I have some latent sadistic tendencies?  It 
wasn't until I sat down and forced myself to imagine 
inflicting pain on Scully in other situations that my fears 
were assuaged.  The image did nothing for me.  When I added 
in the detail of her squirming and writhing against my cock 
as she hung over my lap, however, things began happening 
down under.  Mystery solved; my arousal had been the simple 
physiological result of penile stimulation.  My relief had 
been immeasurable.

What fulfilled me about dominating Scully, I realized, was 
the total trust she placed in me to allow it, the awe I 
felt at her faith in me, the tenderness I felt when I 
considered the responsibility I faced regarding her.  So I 
considered what I must do in light of her defiance with an 
attitude of dread.  The cliche "this is going to hurt me 
more than it hurts you" came to mind, though I could easily 
imagine Scully slugging me if I dared to utter it.

I was startled from my reverie when Scully entered the 
kitchen and automatically knelt next to my chair, 
presenting the back of her neck to me so I could fasten the 
collar I had placed on her.  Shit.  This was the moment I 
had been dreading.  I was now going to have to confront 
"Kat" with her disobedience.  I fastened the collar around 
her neck with a sigh of reluctance.

"The lasagna should be warm," I muttered.  "Serve it for us 
and sit down."

Mutely, she did as she was instructed, not meeting my eyes.  
She seemed to have gone back to the very quiet, thoughtful 
place she went while in submissive mode.  Her calm 
acceptance of the circumstances of our play never ceased to 
amaze me.  I guess I was so used to Scully arguing with me 
at every turn I didn't quite know what to think of this 
very pliant, acquiescent woman.  In some perverse way, it 
made me treasure Scully all the more.  It was as though I 
had two lovers, or more accurately, one lover and one sex-
slave, and the difference between the two women made them 
each more precious to me.  In becoming Kat, Scully granted 
a fantasy, a dream I would never have spoken to her.  She 
gave me the opportunity to be strong, to protect and 
shelter and pamper her.  She gave me permission to live out 
my wildest sexual imaginings with her.  I could do all this 
without losing the strong, independent Scully I counted on, 
the one who so often sheltered and protected *me*.

"Why did you do it, Kat?" I asked.

She struggled for a moment with answering, and I waited 
patiently while she emerged far enough from wherever she 
had gone to regain her ability to speak.  Scully had 
confessed to me that talking during a scene was difficult 
for her, and when she did speak, it was in whispered, 
monosyllabic replies.

"I don't know," she answered with a shake of her head, her 
voice soft.  "I just couldn't *not* fight."

"Why?"

"Because I was frustrated--and angry," she lifted her head 
and I could see Scully begin to emerge as she was pulled 
back to herself enough to require speech.  Her voice became 
stronger and more confident.  "I was angry with myself for 
being angry we were interrupted this afternoon.  I was 
angry with you for bringing the cell phone, angry at 
whomever it was who called us, angry at the cops down at 
the police headquarters.  I shouldn't have been feeling 
like that.  Work's more important--I shouldn't have 
resented the intrusion the way I did, and when it came time 
to submit again, I couldn't do it.  I couldn't get back 
into the mindset, headspace, whatever you want to call it.  
My anger wouldn't let me."

"Was it me you were angry with or just the situation?"

"I don't know.  I felt humiliated all day in the police 
station in this--thing," she looked down at her corset-
encased torso with an ironic glance.  "It didn't matter 
that I was wearing my coat and no one could see me--I felt 
like everyone who gave me a second glance knew.  I'll 
admit, I find the idea of exhibitionism to be a turn on, 
but not when we're on the job.  There I was with the damn 
thing pushing my breasts up around my ears, stiff and 
uncomfortable and with every guy in the building leering at 
me--or so I felt.  And yes, I felt you were to blame for 
it, even though logically I knew you couldn't have done 
anything about it.  And I know you had to bring the phone; 
I just should have been more prepared in case business 
interrupted what we were doing.  It was just too abrupt and 
I felt disoriented and out of sorts."

That I understood, perhaps too well.  I remembered the one 
time I had ever fought Phoebe.  Normally, submitting to her 
hadn't been a problem--all I had wanted was to please her.  
I was in a state of perpetual headspace, constantly in my 
role as bottom.  But one day, an emergency at the mental 
hospital I'd been interning at got me called away in the 
middle of one of her games.  I'd had to get dressed, my 
clothes burning over my reddened ass, and I found myself 
unreasonably angry at the interruption, at the abrupt 
penetration of the mental bubble my submissive state had 
become to me.  I'd had relatively little trouble easing out 
of the bubble when necessary, but when forced to do it all 
at once, I had become very cranky and defiant.  It had 
taken hours for Phoebe to subdue me when I got back.  I 
hadn't been so far gone I had actively fought her, because 
I might have hurt her, and, physically, she really hadn't 
stood a chance had I chosen to truly fight, but I hadn't 
made it easy on her either.

Unfortunately, the difference between Phoebe and myself was 
that she clung to the urban legend image of a dominant, the 
one where a Dom is just waiting for an excuse to pounce 
upon the hapless sub.  Any infraction, no matter how slight 
or contrived, was an excuse for punishment.  Rather than 
being saddened and confused by my defiance--as I was with 
Scully's--she had simply been pissed off.  She had reveled 
in the opportunity to use the infraction to inflict her 
punishment upon me and I had carried the scabbing welts for 
a week.

"I am sorry about the corset--if we do something like this 
again, I'll plan better in case something comes up in the 
middle of the day," I said at last.  "But it doesn't alter 
what you did.  You disobeyed me.  This--" I reached across 
the table and hooked a finger through one of the rings on 
the collar.  She went still, held in place by my grip on 
the ring. "--means you agreed to obey me, no matter what.  
And once I put it on you, you still defied me."

"I know," she murmured, touching the collar thoughtfully.  
She caressed it, her fingers brushing mine.  "I'm sorry.  
I don't know why I couldn't stop, even though I knew what I
was doing went contrary to our arrangement.  Part of me
*wanted* to stop, but once I got started, I couldn't.  I 
realize what I've done, and I know there have to be 
consequences.  If you feel I don't deserve to wear it, 
I'll understand."

The look in her eyes contradicted the words.  The collar 
was more than a symbol of my ownership--it was a symbol of 
her submission, and she took pride in it.  Taking it away 
would be tantamount to someone telling his or her spouse 
they didn't deserve to wear their wedding rings.  It would 
be a terrible blow.

Damn.  I had two choices, neither of them very pleasant.  I 
could either punish her physically or punish her mentally.  
The absolute worst punishment I had ever experienced hadn't 
involved physical pain.  It had been the night Phoebe had 
banished me from her sight, so disgusted with some offense 
she hadn't deemed me worthy of receiving her attention.  
The indifference had been a brutal, calculated maneuver to 
shame and humiliate me.  That she hadn't cared enough to 
take the time to punish my infraction but, instead, had 
dismissed me as though I had no importance in her eyes had 
devastated me.

Phoebe had been a master manipulator; she had played right 
into the emotional abandonment of my parents and punched 
the button so precisely it had only been a half hour since 
she sent me away until I'd gone back, begging her for 
anything else, some other punishment.  Which, of course, 
had been exactly what she wanted.  She used my desperation 
as an excuse to take our play into the one area I had 
absolutely and adamantly refused to consent to in the past-
-fire play.

End of Part Two of Five

Aphrodisia IV - Exploring the Boundaries (Part 3 of 5)
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns
kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com

Despite my deathly fear of fire, I'd been frightened enough 
by her rejection I'd willingly lain on my back on a wooden 
piano bench, my hands and ankles bound to the legs of the 
bench with rough, coarse rope that raised blisters and cut 
my skin.  First, she'd shaved off my chest hair, then 
Phoebe had swabbed my chest with a fine cognac, its alcohol 
content very high and containing very few impurities.  She 
took her time, drawing elaborate swirls and designs before 
she ignited it.  It had flared for an instant and then 
she'd swiped her hand across the flames and put them out.  
The alcohol had instantly evaporated from my skin--I hadn't 
been burned at all, nor had Phoebe when she essentially 
wiped the flames out of existence with her bare hand.  

She'd repeated the process several times, and I had lain 
there with my head hanging backward off the edge of the 
bench, unable to see what was happening even if I hadn't 
been afraid to look, paralyzed with terror, as heat flashed 
again and again above my chest.  Then she untied me, forced 
me to lay on my belly, bound me again, and repeated the 
process on my back.  Only that time, she was a little more 
careless and got some of the cognac into my hair.  I had 
felt the flames at the base of my scalp, felt her slap my 
head several times to smother the flames, and then I had 
smelled my own singed hair.  I had vomited and then blacked 
out.

Of course, I know fire play can be done safely, and until 
the final time, Phoebe hadn't harmed me at all.  She'd 
actually been rather good at it, leaving to me wonder if 
her taunt as she tied me down ("I always did want to try 
this, Fox...") hadn't been more for effect more than for 
anything else.  But there's no logic to a phobia, and 
knowing it could be done safely doesn't alter the fact 
that I broke into a cold sweat at the very idea of flames 
touching my skin.  Phoebe had used my worst emotional 
trigger to coerce me into allowing her to play upon my 
worst physical fear.  That was the sort of sadistic bitch 
she had been.  It had only been a couple weeks later when 
I discovered her in bed with someone else and had mustered 
up what was left of my self respect and gotten out.

I would never do that to anyone, especially not Scully.  I 
could somehow banish her for a while but only at the risk 
of sending the wrong message to her about how I value her 
submission and the days we spend in the D/s game.  I had 
decided early on I didn't want to venture into humiliation 
play with her--I had no desire to see her shamed or 
humbled.  She submitted with pride and grace and I loved 
seeing it, loved taking her in public and knowing this 
beautiful woman with her head held high was *mine* body and 
soul.  To send her away would be to tell her she wasn't 
worthy of being my submissive, and that, I think, would 
essentially end our D/s play.  It would add something 
unhappy and ugly to our normally joyous interaction as 
Master and Kat.

The other option was using some of the equipment I'd picked 
up weeks ago at the tack shop in Philadelphia, the riding 
gear I'd bought more for mental effect than physical.  
Spanking was one thing--it might sting, but it's really not 
all that bad, and if you hit just the right spot, it can be 
arousing because of the impact throughout the entire 
genital region.  But Scully and I both knew this went 
beyond a spanking offense.

Unbidden, a quote from the preface to "Story of O" sprang 
to mind.

"You should never have agreed to be a god for me if you 
were afraid to assume the duties of a god, and we all know 
they are not so tender as all that.  You have already seen 
me cry--now you must learn to relish my tears."

It was melodramatic drivel, of course, written by a man 
trying to cash in on the furor surrounding the novel by 
droning on at length about his own interpretation of it.  
The latter was something I could never do, not in a million 
years, but there was something to the first part of the 
quote.  Scully had trusted me with her most vulnerable 
self, her most secret desires, and some aspect of that 
required me to harden myself somewhat against my 
instinctive reactions where Scully was concerned.  This 
wasn't a situation where my protectiveness of Scully 
applied--I had nothing to protect her against other than 
myself, and if she trusted me to do this, shouldn't I trust 
myself?  There, however, was the crux of the problem.  I 
wasn't sure I did trust myself.  I'd promised to play the 
dominant role--and I enjoyed it, for the most part--but I 
had to fill it in all aspects, not just the pleasant ones.  
Could I do that?

"I'm going into the living room, Kat," I announced as I 
finished eating.  "Please take care of the dishes while I 
make some preparations."

She nodded silently and rose from the table.  I took a 
moment to enjoy watching her, clad in the brocade corset 
and nothing else, as she cleared the table.  I felt myself 
growing aroused again at the sight of her and rose from my 
chair, leaving the room before I decided to act upon that 
arousal.  Accompanied by the sound of dishes clinking and 
water running, I retrieved the bag I had picked up in 
Philadelphia from the hall closet.

Slowly, inspecting each item, I laid out on the coffee 
table first the paddle I had gotten at the fetish shop, 
covered in leather on one side and rabbit fur on the other.  
Then I pulled out the riding implements, the flat-headed 
crop, forked quirt, and sharp signal whip.  As I handled 
them, I replayed in my mind the sensation of each when 
wielded in various ways.  Did they really not hurt all that 
much, or had time dulled the memory of the pain?  Or was I 
simply cushioning myself from the reality of what I must do 
by convincing myself that in the final equation, they 
hadn't hurt all that much?

Shit.

I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Scully standing 
in the archway to the living room, watching me as I 
fingered the riding crop.  I stood from my crouching 
position next to the coffee table to face her.

While I was still deciding what to say next, she walked 
toward me, her head bowed, and of her own volition knelt at 
my feet.  She took my hand in both of hers, kissed the back 
of it gently, and whispered, "I'm sorry I defied you, 
Master," as she cradled it to her bare breasts.

Startled, I stared down at her bent head in something next 
to awe, filled at once with wonderment and tenderness.  How 
had this happened?  How was I able to suppress my sense of 
the absurd enough to accept *Scully* on her knees to *me*?  
Un-fucking-believable.

It wasn't Scully, it was Kat, but in my mind, I could never 
quite separate the two entirely.  The fact was Kat only 
existed because Scully *wanted* her to exist, and so 
ultimately it came down to the basic reality that Kat knelt 
before me and called me Master because Scully wanted it and 
had chosen to allow it.

There was only one way I could respond to this gesture, and 
that was to be the Master she was looking for me to be.  
She had placed herself completely in my hands, and I had an 
obligation to her.

"I want you to know," I said softly, stroking her shining 
hair as her head rested against my thigh, "I don't want to 
punish you.  But I have to."

I felt her nod ever so slightly.  The breath through my 
jeans might have been a whispered acknowledgment, but I 
couldn't hear it over the pounding of my own heart.

"I can't do it right now.  Emotionally, I'm not up to it," 
I sighed.  "I need a while to prepare myself.  We can do it 
later tonight, or next Saturday.  What I want you to do is 
to choose which of these," I indicated the toys on the 
table with a sweeping gesture of my hand, "I should use, 
and how many strokes I should give you.  When you've 
decided, you must ask me to punish you.  It has to be 
before the end of next Saturday or any time between now and 
then.  But you must *ask* me for it."

She stared at me, her eyes wide and surprised--this wasn't 
what she'd been expecting.  But frankly, unless it's 
outright torture, pain isn't all that effective as a 
punishment, certainly not against a stoic like Scully.  No, 
her punishment needed to be cerebral in nature, whatever 
form it took, and by making her consider it, *anticipate* 
it, that was what I had provided.  In addition, by making 
her choose the form the punishment would take, I was 
safeguarding myself, making certain what happened was all 
right with her.

If I knew Scully, if I had given her the option, she would 
have chosen that instant to have it done, would have gotten 
it over with as soon as possible.  But that would have been 
too easy--she needed to consider it a while, sweat it a 
bit.  *That* would be her punishment.  It would also give 
me time to prepare myself, though the delay meant I would 
suffer the anxiety of anticipation as well.

"What--" she cleared her throat, struggling, as always, 
with raising her voice enough to speak.  "What will we do 
until then?"

"Until then, you'll continue to serve me as you are 
supposed to.  You can start by giving me a massage--the oil 
is in the medicine cabinet."

She nodded and, using my hand for leverage, rose from her 
knees and walked toward the bathroom.  Her steps were slow 
and even, her gait moderated by the enforced rigidity of 
her spine in the corset.  It was black with a raised silver 
design, an off-the-rack job I'd picked up at a local fetish 
shop that week.  If there had been time, or if I hadn't 
wanted to surprise her, I would have taken the dozen or so 
exacting measurements required to custom order a corset and 
gotten one specifically tailored to her contours.  In my 
mind, I made the corset scarlet and added the pair of red 
strap on high heels she'd worn the one time, envisioning 
the tiny steps she'd be required to take to keep her 
balance.  An idea for our next week's play began to take 
shape...

My fantasy was interrupted as she returned, bearing the 
massage oil I had bought shortly after we had become 
lovers, when it had come to my attention Scully suffered 
lower back pain in lieu of menstrual cramps.  Many very 
pleasant evenings had started with that small bottle of 
Desert Musk scented oil, but this was the first time I'd 
ever commanded her to play body servant for me.

She knelt with some difficulty beside the sofa and I rose, 
getting on my knees behind her.  "Hold still," I commanded, 
and began loosening the laces on her corset.  She drew in a 
deep breath as the constriction around her ribs eased.  
Reaching in front of her, I released the steel hooks in the 
front of the corset and pulled it off, setting it carefully 
on the coffee table.

Beneath the corset, she wore a form-fitting Lycra sheath on 
her torso, designed to protect her skin from chafing.  I 
had purchased it with the corset.  After her shower that 
morning, I had applied lotion and powder to her skin before 
she had donned the liner.  The effort put into the 
precautionary endeavor seemed to have paid off--while there 
were some slight impressions in her skin from the pressure 
of the corset, there didn't appear to be any irritation or 
chafing.  I pulled the Lycra liner over her head and took 
my time caressing the soft skin of her back, kissing and 
licking the powder-and-lotion scented flesh while Scully 
shivered and whimpered beneath me.  I ran my tongue over 
her neck just under the collar and was rewarded by her soft 
moan.

My hands moved over her ribs from her back to her chest, 
cupping her breasts.  I rolled the nipples between my 
fingertips, pulling on them, squeezing and kneading the 
soft flesh.  I pressed my chest against the cool skin of 
her back and breathed deeply of the scent of her hair.  I 
slid one hand down to the juncture of her thighs and 
threaded my fingers through the springy curls of her pubic 
hair.  She was slick with moisture and she shuddered 
lightly when I stroked her swollen labia.  I dipped my 
middle finger inside her and swirled it lazily while my 
thumb and forefinger played lightly with her clit.

"Did you bring your toy back with you?" I murmured against 
her ear.  In preparation for our attempt at anal sex, she'd 
kept the large plug we'd purchased in Philadelphia with her 
all week, regardless of where we slept on any given 
evening.  She had worn it for a while each night to become 
used to anal penetration and to practice voluntary control 
over the muscles.  This had served an additional purpose in 
bringing anal play out of the realm of our D/s 
relationship, because we approached the nightly ritual as 
ourselves rather than Master and Kat.  Scully had told me 
this actually helped her overcome some of her nervousness, 
because she felt more relaxed and casual around me as 
Mulder than as her master.

I was, perhaps, going over the edge a little on the 
cautionary measures, but it was important to me for this to 
be something Scully enjoyed, not just something that didn't 
hurt her.  She claimed to find the feeling of the plug 
inside her pleasant, and we'd both been anticipating this 
experiment all week.

"Yes, Master," she whispered, gasping as I lightly squeezed 
her clitoris between the pads of my fingers.  I felt a 
ripple of excitement run through her, starting around my 
finger inside her, the instant I alluded to anal sex, and I 
could swear her already-wet vagina became even wetter.  
Fluid slowly rolled down my finger, into my palm and down 
the back of my hand.

"You're turned on, aren't you, Kat?" I whispered 
tauntingly, nibbling on her ear.  I continued molding and 
caressing her breasts with my other hand while the single 
finger of the hand between her thighs fucked her with a 
slow, relentlessly steady rhythm.  She wriggled against my 
hand, seeking more.  This was becoming one of my favorite 
Scully-states, when she's so aroused that nothing matters 
to her anymore but more pleasure, more sensation, where she 
becomes mindless and completely governed by her instinctual 
need.  I continued my verbal foreplay, deliberately getting 
cruder, "It excites you to know that tonight, I'm going to 
fuck your ass."

"Yessss..." she hissed, thrusting her hips forward against 
my hand.  "Oh, God..."

There was a note of desperation in her tone I didn't hear 
often, and I remembered she hadn't come when I'd taken her 
earlier.  My cock was painfully constricted inside my 
jeans, desperate to get free and bury itself within her.  
The mental image of the orgasm she would have when I took 
her wasn't helping the situation much, nor was the 
anticipation of how tight it would be inside her ass, how 
it would feel when she shuddered and spasmed around me...

Shit...time to get this under control again.

I pulled my finger out of her, coated with her own juices, 
and held my hand up to her face.  "See how wet you are, 
Kat?  Taste it."

Her tongue darted out and flicked against the trails of 
wetness on my palm, lapping in short, quick strokes, the 
slightly elastic secretions creating tiny strands between 
her lips and my palm before her tongue collected them with 
a solid swipe.  I could see it all from my position behind 
and over her, barely breathing with the force of my own 
arousal.  It was more erotic than any porn film had ever 
contrived to be, more sensual than my wildest wet dream.  
Her tongue stroking, her hot, moist breath against my 
palm...

I moved my hand and slid my still-wet middle finger between 
her lips and past her teeth, into the warm cavern of her 
mouth.  Her tongue stroked it softly as I moved steadily in 
and out of her mouth in mimicry of intercourse.  She closed 
her lips and began to suck on the digit.  I moaned softly 
at the suggestive, tugging pressure.

Pulling my fingers from her mouth, I nibbled on her neck, 
grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head aside 
for better access.  I forcibly turned her head and took her 
mouth, kissing the taste of her from her lips.  I released 
her hair and moved my hand between her slightly parted 
thighs again, sliding my finger into her once more.  I 
resumed the steady in-and-out rhythm I'd begun earlier 
until she was moving restlessly, returning the pumping 
motion of my finger with small jerks of her hips.  Her 
movements stopped when I withdrew my finger and slid it 
further back, over her perineum to her anus.  With my body 
pressed intimately against hers, I felt the instant 
when she willed herself to relax as I moved my finger in 
slow, easy circles against the tight opening.

"That's good, Kat--" I praised her, murmuring gently 
against her ear.  I eased the finger inside very gently and 
slowly, mindful of the fact I had neither any lubricant 
other than her own, nor gloves.  The absence of the gloves 
meant it would be unwise to go back to the well, as it 
were, for more moisture.  In addition, we had learned 
during our experimentation the importance of a 
painstakingly careful trimming of the fingernails as a 
Friday night ritual, another dilemma which the gloves 
solved.  I was alert for any indication of distress or 
discomfort, but she merely sighed softly and hummed with 
pleasure as I slowly moved my finger in and out.  After a 
moment, I could feel what little natural lubrication I'd 
collected beginning to absorb, so I carefully withdrew my 
finger and kissed the back of her neck.

"Go get the supplies," I commanded quietly.  I helped her 
to her feet and went into the bathroom to wash my hands 
while she collected the gym bag we had converted into a 
toy bag.  We met again in the living room, Scully standing 
with the bag at her feet, staring thoughtfully at the 
riding implements on the coffee table.

I would have given anything to know what was running 
through her mind at that moment, but I couldn't read her 
face.  Rather than pursue a topic I wasn't sure I was ready 
to handle just yet, I instructed her to lay on her side on 
the sofa with her back facing the room and knelt on the 
floor behind her.  She instinctively assumed the pose we'd 
come to find easiest, with one leg straight down from her 
body and the other extended forward, her knee drawn up to 
her chest.  This exposed her rear without creating tension 
in the muscles of her thighs and backside.

I worked slowly and meticulously, putting a condom on the 
larger plug we had worked up to, and, with glove in place 
this time, prepared her anus with what appeared, from my 
end, to be an absurd amount of lubricant.  "Too much is 
almost enough" seemed to be the prevailing wisdom where 
anal sex and lubricant were concerned, and I followed the 
advice religiously.  I'd also gone back out shopping and 
gotten an oil-based lubricant in addition to the water-
based lube we used for vaginal play, as it has more staying 
power and doesn't evaporate as water-based lubes do.  The 
only drawback to oil-based lubricants is the damage they do 
to rubber, so since STDs weren't a concern and I'd rather 
buy more toys than risk harm to Scully, it wasn't an issue 
for us.  The worst we had to fear should a condom break is 
an undue amount of time cleaning our toys or, at worst, 
replacing them if the petroleum products rendered them 
unusable.

Lifting one buttock with my ungloved hand, I used the other 
hand to slowly open her with my fingers.  We'd discovered 
the roundness of the plug was more comfortable than an 
attempt at three fingers, with the same widening effect, so 
after I was assured of her comfort with two fingers fully 
inserted, I introduced the plug and very carefully began 
working it in.  I pressed forward and withdrew, fucking her 
with it and slowly going deeper, never rushing, giving her 
time to adapt and relax each time I pushed deeper with the 
gradually widening rubber plug.  When she was taking in all 
but the very widest point before the stem, I spent a long 
while moving it in and out to that point, in slow, steady 
strokes.  Scully's soft sounds of pleasure encouraged and 
reassured me until I gave one final, firm push and the plug 
slid all the way in, seated securely with the stem held in 
place by her muscles.  Scully's gasp of surprise was almost 
a delayed reaction, sounding a split second after the feat 
was finally accomplished.

"How does that feel?" I asked, kissing her perspiration-
dampened shoulder lightly.  I kept my ungloved hand on her 
back, feeling the tension, or lack thereof, in her muscles.  
I could also feel the tiny quiver that rippled through her 
intermittently, which I had learned was Scully's reaction 
to the intensity of having the plug inside her.

"Good," she sighed softly.  "Wonderful..."

Solicitously, I used the baby-wipes I'd taken to keeping in 
our toy-bag to clean up the excess lubricant and discarded 
the wipes and glove.  When I returned, Scully still hadn't 
moved from her position on the sofa.  If I hadn't known 
better, I would have said she was asleep, but I'd become 
familiar with her reactions to certain play and recognized 
this languor as a state she reaches when whatever she's 
experiencing is profound.

Thrilled as I was to see it, I was not, however, adverse to 
disturbing it.  I smacked her lightly on the rump, jolting 
the plug, and she yelped and bolted upright, giving me an 
indignant glare.

"You're in my place," I said firmly.  "Or did you think I'd 
forgotten I'd ordered you to give me a massage?"

If I hadn't forgotten, she certainly had, that much I could 
see on her face.  I couldn't help but laugh at the instant 
of confusion she'd evidenced before recollecting the 
dictate.

"Go get a sheet so we don't get oil on the sofa," I 
instructed.  By the time she returned, I had removed my 
jeans and soon was lying on my stomach atop the sheet she 
spread over the sofa.  Closing my eyes, I relaxed under her 
strong, gentle hands.  It wasn't to last long, however.  I 
felt her bare breasts brush my arm as she leaned over me 
and turned my head to find myself with a direct eyeful of 
Scully-bosom.

Almost without thinking, I shifted myself up onto my 
forearms and took one of her nipples in my mouth, sucking 
and nibbling lightly while she sighed and moaned quietly.  
I switched breasts and gave the second the same treatment 
as its companion before releasing her now damp nipple to 
instruct her to hand me the toy bag.

In a zippered compartment on the side were the two pairs of 
nipple clamps I'd purchased and withdrew the more elaborate 
pair.  They were tighter than the other pair, with flat, 
round, slightly padded discs at their tips rather than the 
rubber sleeves of the other pair.  I wondered what Scully 
would do if I pulled those rubber sleeves off the others 
and revealed the tiny metal teeth they covered.  Not that 
I'd ever use them on her without the sleeves, but the sight 
would certainly give her pause, discompose her for a while.  
Now wasn't the time, however.  Now, I wanted to present her 
with a challenge.

"Twenty minutes," I announced, taking one soft breast in my 
hand and settling one clamp firmly on the nipple still wet 
from my mouth.  I tightened the screw slowly until I heard 
a small gasp from her, then repeated the process on the 
other side.  "Twenty minutes, and you're not to halt my 
massage for anything."

She nodded silently and, satisfied, I lay back down on the 
sofa and closed my eyes to enjoy my massage.

End of Part Three of Five

Aphrodisia IV - Exploring the Boundaries (Part 4 of 5)
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns
kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com

Twenty minutes.  It might not sound like much, but with 
one's nipples in small vises, it's a virtual eternity.

My only saving grace, I realized, was the plug that had 
been inserted by my Master.  I'd discovered quite by 
accident the use of the plug had the effect of lessening 
discomfort from any number of other stimuli.  It was a 
relatively simple concept, really, nothing more than a 
dispersal of sensation through my body.  Like stubbing 
one's toe to ease the pain of banging one's elbow, only in 
this case, the distracting stimulus was infinitely more 
pleasant than stubbing a toe.

I'd never imagined anal penetration could become something 
I found so immensely enjoyable.  Initially, the idea had 
turned me on because it seemed such a taboo thing to do, 
illicit and so very submissive.  I'd meant what I said when 
I told Mulder I didn't want there to be a part of me he 
couldn't have if he wanted it--what I needed to truly feel 
I belonged to him during these games was for him to 
exercise free rein over me.  We were almost there, it 
seemed.  He'd been confident enough in his role as Dominant 
to force my submission from me earlier when I'd resisted 
him.  As time passed and our comfort in our roles 
increased, he became more assertive and commanding, and I 
responded by becoming even more submissive and yielding.

But I hadn't counted on the sheer physical pleasure to be 
had with anal play.  Hadn't counted on the surface 
sensations that came with being penetrated in that manner, 
or the unbelievable sense of fullness when the plug was 
securely seated inside me.  Even with the medical knowledge 
I'd possess, the clinical information I'd absorbed that 
said the anus was full of nerve endings, good for both 
women and men, yadda, yadda, yadda, I'd never really 
*believed* how pleasurable it could be.  And tonight my 
Master would replace the inanimate rubber plug with his own 
warm, living flesh.  It would be his body filling me so 
completely and intimately.  I was ready to come at the 
thought--I could feel my own pulse in my clit, could feel 
my sensitive, swollen labia.  My thighs were sticky and 
uncomfortable with the secretions leaking steadily from my 
body.

It was almost, *almost* enough to make me forget the ever-
increasing pain in my nipples.

There's no mercy to nipple clamps, just cold, unyielding 
metal.  They don't need to let go and adjust their grip at 
intervals as my Master's fingers do.  They don't respond to 
my wiggling and moaning--they're just there, constantly 
pinching, the pain increasing as the moments passed.  I 
couldn't focus on that, though--my attention had to be 
dedicated to my Master, to pleasing him.  I had to 
concentrate on the feel of his muscles beneath my hands, 
the warm, slick, oil-coated skin.  Find a tight spot, knead 
it, caress it, move on to the next muscle group.  I paid 
homage with my hands, conveying through my touch my 
devotion and adoration.

I'd tried over the intervening weeks to analyze what it was 
that made me want to submit to him.  Slavery and 
subservience are things we are taught from our earliest 
days are wrong.  We're told it's dehumanizing, 
degrading...to call someone else "master" is to place them 
higher than yourself, more superior, important, 
worthy.  Why then, should it be something I found 
fulfilling?  Why should I willfully seek what most people 
would see as a devaluation of my own self-worth?

But I didn't *feel* devalued.  In fact, quite the opposite-
-I felt more cherished and loved when I submitted to Mulder 
than in any other moment of my life.  Mulder *knew* what it 
took for me to turn myself over, knew the effort required 
to set aside my own need for control, and he appreciated 
it, admired it even.  It was as though submission was an 
endurance test--how far would I go?  How much would I do?  
How sincere was I?  The harder he made it for me, the 
happier I was.  The deeper I could sublimate my own ego and 
sense of self, the more fulfilled I felt.

I tried to fixate on how warm and alive his flesh was under 
my hands, the sensual delight touching him provided.  Even 
with all this masculine pulchritude at my fingertips, 
however, I found myself biting my lip to stifle sounds of 
discomfort as the pain from the nipple clamps would not be 
denied.

There was no clock I could see from where I knelt by the 
sofa, but I found my thoughts growing rebellious and angry.  
Damn him, why didn't he release me? Surely he had to know I 
was in pain, know twenty minutes was too long for me to 
suffer these merciless devices.  My nipples throbbed with 
red-hot agony, my body was tense as I fought against the 
pain.

I reveled in the pain even as I hated it.  I was going 
through this trial because my Master had said I was to do 
so.  It was easy to submit when everything he did to me 
felt good--the real challenge, though, was when I didn't 
enjoy what was happening.  That was when my submission 
became a test of endurance, something I could overcome and 
take pride in.

Leaning forward to rub the far side of my Master's ribcage 
brought my nipples in abrupt contact with the arm lying at 
his side and an unwilling whimper escaped me.  That sudden
jolt sent a sharp stab of agony through my nipples.  I 
might have been able to endure the slowly increasing ache, 
but that sudden and unexpected contact proved to be too 
much for me.  He was already in motion, sitting up, when I 
hung my head and whispered, "Flukeman."  I felt ashamed of 
myself for my weakness, for my inability to handle a simple 
endurance test.  I detested that I'd had to give in and use 
that word...

"Hold still," he murmured.  "I'll take them off now."

I understood the warning and clenched my hands tightly, my 
nails biting into my palms.  I bit off a wail when he 
quickly released the first nipple and the pain overwhelmed 
me, consumed my entire being for a moment.  Instead, the 
sound escaped me a second later when the other nipple was 
freed.  Then his hands and mouth were there, caressing, 
soothing, licking, sucking...  The pain receded and was 
replaced by an achy, sore sort of pleasure.  I sighed 
heavily.

"Thank you," he said, kissing my lips tenderly.

"For what?" Confused, I stared at him.  I was humiliated 
I'd been reduced to pleading for mercy, and I'd done 
exactly what he'd told me not to, which was disrupt his 
massage--why on earth was he thanking me?

"For reassuring me you will use your safe-word if you need 
to," he replied softly.  Without my realizing it, he'd 
somehow maneuvered me into his lap and was cradling me 
against his body, stroking my breasts and skin gently.  He 
pressed soft kisses over my cheek and temple.  I could feel 
his cock inside his boxers, prodding my hip, and his thigh 
beneath my bottom was creating all sorts of distractions 
against the butt plug I wore.  Somehow, through all these 
sensations, I was aware of his relief that I'd used the 
word.  We were planning to do something new tonight--how 
could he do that if he wasn't confident I'd let him know if 
I had trouble?  He'd intentionally tightened the clamps to 
the point where I almost certainly would be unable to bear 
it for long and then he'd waited to see what would happen.

He seemed so confident--sometimes it was easy to forget he 
was feeling his way here.  It was simple to let myself sink 
into my submissive state, to become a being of pure emotion 
and sensation. It was easy to neglect the fact he put a 
great deal of thought and effort into assuring my safety 
and well-being, and he needed my help to be certain he'd 
succeeded.

He'd told me at the beginning he worried about my ability 
to be honest with him regarding any pain I might 
experience.  Being a stoic was in my nature--you didn't 
hang out with the boys as a child if you cried like a girl 
when you skinned your knee.  I'd learned early on to keep 
it inside, to not let on when I was hurting.  But what 
Mulder and I were doing was so different from any 
experience I'd had in my life, the need to be forthright 
about what I was feeling so much more vital--

But I'd passed the test, I realized.  As ashamed as I'd 
been to do it, I'd let him know when it had gotten to be 
too much for me to bear, let him know I was in distress.  
How long had he been waiting for that, I wondered.  Had it 
inhibited what he felt able to do with me that I hadn't yet 
indicated my willingness to use my safe-word if I found 
myself going past my limits?  How would this affect our 
future play?

The question wasn't to be answered anytime soon.  I found 
myself arching backwards as his gentle coddling became 
insistent caressing, lying across his lap as his hands 
roamed my body.  It took only a matter of moments for the 
fingers that went seeking between my legs to bring me to 
the brink of climax--a few more strokes and there would 
have been no turning back, but he didn't cross that line.  
I stared at him in puzzlement even as I groaned my 
frustration--it wasn't usual for him not to pursue my 
climax with a vigor that bordered on obsession.

Hell, it if thrilled him, who was I to argue?

At his gentle prompting, I rose from his lap and followed 
him into the bedroom after collecting the lube and other 
supplies.  Without comment, he grabbed a towel and went 
into the bathroom to wet a washcloth while I deposited my 
armful of miscellany on the nightstand.  He set the towel 
and washcloth down beside the rest and, taking my hand, 
tugged me to the bed.

"Don't worry about the safe-word," he said, kissing me 
softly, caressing my body with light, comforting strokes as 
he rolled me beneath him.  "If something is wrong, say 
whatever you have to say to stop it; I'll be listening."

I nodded, my heart in my throat.  We were honestly going to 
do this, I thought in amazement.  I was going to share with 
him something I'd never trusted anyone else with.  I was 
going to give him something of myself no one had ever had.  
As trite as it sounded, I was immeasurably pleased by the 
idea, by the thought I would bring him something special 
and unique.

He kissed me then, his tongue probing my mouth, his cock 
sliding back and forth between my legs, separated from me 
only by the silk layer of his boxers, which created a 
delicious friction against my clit.  He took his time, 
making love to me as tenderly as he'd ever done, with hands 
and mouth and warm, massage-oil scented flesh worshipping 
my body.  I returned the caresses, my own desire rendering 
me voracious in my pursuit of the pleasure we would give 
each other.  In truth, our roles as Dominant and submissive 
were forgotten for the while, and we shared the moment 
instead as lovers.

It was a long while before he rolled me, trembling and 
panting with desire, over onto my side and carefully 
extracted the lubricated plug from my body.  As ever, he 
took his time, slowly inserting and withdrawing the toy 
repeatedly, making certain it was causing me no discomfort.  
To the contrary, I enjoyed the sensation immensely, and 
took care to make sure he knew it, but I was getting 
impatient.  When we'd first begun the anal play, it had 
been something I wanted yet feared.  We'd started out 
slowly to give me time to get over my phobia and, for the 
most part, my fear had passed.  I could say I was 95% 
certain I wouldn't be hurt--the remaining 5% of me would 
need proof, first.  But we'd taken longer to get to this 
point than it had taken me to become ready for it, and we 
had been more painstaking in our preparations than perhaps 
was physically necessary.  That, I recognized, was a 
reassurance he needed, to take every precaution, even to 
the point of the absurd, to ensure I'd be okay.

But now the moment was here, and I was anxious and eager as 
I heard Mulder peel the condom off the plug and discard it.  
I could feel his movements on the bed behind me as he 
prepared himself, donning another glove, slathering 
lubricant onto his cock.  His hands trembled with the force 
of his arousal as he spread my buttocks and smeared a 
generous quantity of lubricant over my anus, two fingers 
sliding easily inside and moving in a twisting motion to 
distribute it thoroughly over the muscles.  His body was 
warm as he pressed flush against my back, spooned against 
me, his slick cock rubbing my ass.  With one gloved finger 
still inside me, he positioned his penis alongside it.

"I want you to push back," he murmured against my shoulder.  
"Take your time, do it at your pace.  Stop if you need to."

As I nodded my assent, I realized I was forgetting to 
breathe and inhaled deeply, then released a long sigh.  I 
pushed ever so slightly with my internal muscles and 
pressed backward with my hips.

God, I could feel him going in!  The pressure was 
incredible--overwhelming, too much, too good!  It kept 
building and building and I hissed suddenly as I 
experienced a slight burning pain.  He froze, but even as 
he did so, the discomfort was fading and I realized the 
small eternity that had just passed had only been the head 
of his cock entering me.  "Keep going!" I whispered 
urgently, still pressing back against him, my eyes tightly 
closed, and he obeyed my mandate.  The last of that small 
burning disappeared, replaced by blossoming pleasure as he 
slid deeper and deeper into my body.  It was only a short, 
painless instant until I felt his hips against my ass.  
"Ohh...my...God..." I moaned softly.  Somewhere at the edge 
of my consciousness, I was aware of the glove he'd been 
wearing being taken off, and then his arms were encircling 
me, holding me close.

"This feels amazing," I said breathlessly.  Full--that was 
the only word for it.  I felt completely, indescribably 
full.  I could feel my anus making tiny spasms around his 
shaft, could feel a ripple run through my entire body at 
intervals.  I felt connected to him with an intimacy I'd 
never imagined before, awed and stunned by this unexpected 
depth of pleasure.  He was quivering as he held me.

"Are you okay?" he gasped at last, his face pressed into my 
hair.

Out of nowhere, I began giggling, a breathless laugh of 
wonder.  If what he was experiencing was anything akin to 
what I felt, he was doing well to string three words 
together in a coherent sentence, much less be concerned 
about my state of well-being.  I'm not sure I'd be as 
mindful were our positions reversed.

He moaned and I realized he was feeling my giggles 
intimately.  The thought made me laugh harder, and his 
pleading tone as he groaned my name found me with my face 
pressed against the pillow, tears leaking from my eyes.  It 
wasn't until he clutched a handful of my hair and jerked my 
head back that my merriment fled.

"Stop. Now." he growled dangerously, giving a slight push 
of his hips.  The effect was profound--I gasped sharply, 
the pressure that had eased somewhat as I had relaxed 
around his cock immediately back in full force.

"Yesss..." I moaned.  "God, yes.  More."

"You want me to move?" he asked against my shoulder.

"Please..." I whimpered, pushing back.  I'd discovered 
early on anal penetration had a significant effect on me, 
but now I could feel the absurd wetness of my moisture on 
my thighs and the throbbing of my clitoris.  I thought I 
might die if I didn't come soon.  I also desperately wanted 
to know how it felt for him to truly fuck me this way.

Carefully, holding my hip with his upper hand while the 
other arm served as a pillow for my head against his 
shoulder, Mulder pulled back slowly and surged forward 
again.  I cried out, overwhelmed for a moment by the 
pleasure of the sensation.

"Oh, Jesus--I never even imagined it could feel this good-"  
he was mumbling in my ear, but I was only half-aware of 
his words.  My entire being was focused on the tight, full 
feeling.  I need more, had to have it.  His second thrust 
was even better, setting a slightly awkward rhythm that 
came with the fact we were lying on our sides.  His hand 
slid from my hip to between my thighs, finding my rock-hard 
clit with a precision born of intimate knowledge.

I yelped sharply, my body going rigid as a shock-wave of 
pleasure rocketed through me.  It wasn't an orgasm--there 
was no sense of release with it, just my body responding to 
too much sensation all at once.  He barked out a hoarse cry 
and forgot about stroking my clit as I relaxed again in 
slow measures.

"Better let me do that," I murmured, pulling his hand from 
between my legs.  "I'm too sensitive right now."

"Okay," he agreed breathlessly.  I smirked and almost began 
giggling again.  Mulder was reaching the precipice where my 
carefully conscientious lover took a brief leave of absence 
and left his Neanderthal alter-ego in charge.  He'd agree 
to just about anything I proposed in that state.
 
I bent at the waist, curled forward into a semi-fetal 
position, and the pressure increased as this new pose 
caused different muscles to tighten.  We gasped in unison.  
"Damn, this isn't going to last long," he hissed in 
warning.

"That's okay--neither will I," I replied.  "Please...just 
move."

He gripped my hip tightly and began to move slowly.  I was 
vaguely aware I was alternating between a low, constant 
moan and breathless gasps.  Sweet Jesus, the pressure, the 
unbearable fullness...I could feel, deep in my belly, that 
tension that said I was about to have the orgasm of a 
lifetime, if only I could get past the edge.  Mulder's 
breathing was becoming harsh and ragged, punctuated by 
epithets and pleas for divine intervention.  I roughly 
thrust my hand between my legs and began rubbing it over 
the hood of my clitoris, well aware I was too sensitive for 
direct contact.  I pushed hard, creating a deep, steady 
pressure, moving in slow circles.  I tipped my head back, 
arching my neck, and gave a soft cry as the tension in my 
abdomen increased.  It was agonizing, to be so close...

I could feel Mulder's body quaking with the attempt to 
restrain himself.  I didn't want him to hold back--I wanted 
him to cut loose.  I needed it, needed something to push me 
over the precipice.

"Harder," I whispered, pulling at my clit with my 
fingertips.

"I...don't want...hurt you..." his semi-coherent protest 
was delivered in hissing gasps between his slow thrusts.

"You won't," I replied.  "Please..." I hesitated, knowing 
what I wanted, but feeling foolish saying it.  My need won 
out over my pride.  "Take me.  Please.  Now."

A violent shudder ran through him and he drew in a deep 
breath, then his hand tightened on my hip, hard enough to 
bruise, and he thrust forward fast and hard.  We grunted in 
unison as his hips slammed against my buttocks.

"Yesss..." I whimpered.  Grinding my palm against my clit, 
I dipped two fingers into my vagina to search for my G-
spot.  Against the back of my fingers, I could feel the 
head of his penis through the wall of muscle, surging past 
in an ever-increasing tempo.  As his pace grew faster, so 
did the feeling of being filled to bursting.  As my 
fingertips found the sensitive spot inside myself, I used 
the other hand to continue circling my clit.

"God, yes...Oh, God, yes..." I chanted breathlessly.  My 
body was jarred with every impact of his pelvis against my 
ass, and then suddenly I was there, tumbling over the edge.  
I felt the contractions around the fingers still in my 
vagina, felt the pressure deep in my gut release with a 
suddenness bordering on painful.  I was vaguely aware of 
muffling my shriek in Mulder's arm as it pillowed my head, 
though it would be sometime later before I realized I had 
actually bit his bicep.  Mulder yelled and slammed into me 
a couple more times.  He released my hip and hooked his 
upper arm around my torso, dragging me close to his body as 
he froze and shuddered within and behind me.  I could feel 
his spasms deep inside my body, could feel his hot breath 
on my neck as he clutched me close and spilled himself into 
me.

The room was strangely still afterwards, as our breathing 
slowed to normal.  Neither of us moved, stunned and 
trembling by the intensity of what we had experienced.  It 
wasn't until I felt wetness under my face that I realized 
I'd been crying through my orgasm and afterwards, 
overwhelmed by the combination of emotion and pure physical 
pleasure that had gone into making this one of the most 
profound experiences of my life.

As awareness returned in slow increments, I also discovered 
Mulder had been speaking to me for an undetermined length 
of time.  Declarations of wonder and devotion were 
interspersed with increasingly urgent inquiries as to my 
well being.

"Love you...that was amazing...you all right?  Beyond 
incredible...You okay?  Scully?"

The name surprised me for a moment, but it was appropriate, 
I realized.  I'd always thought anal sex was a very 
submissive thing to do, raunchy and forbidden.  I don't 
think I would have considered it had we not begun the 
sessions as Dominant and submissive.  But what had just 
happened between us went beyond the games to the heart of 
our relationship.  We'd made love in a new way.  He had 
taken nothing of or from me, nor had I surrendered 
anything.  We'd shared something intimate and wondrous.  In 
a moment or two, we would return to our play, but right 
now, I faced him as his lover, the masquerade discarded in 
lieu of something even more precious.

I hummed happily.  "Yes, I'm okay," I said softly.  "Better 
than okay.  God, that was fabulous."

"Hmmm, yes, it was," he replied, holding me tightly.  His 
softening cock was still inside my ass and a second later, 
he regretfully released me to pull out.
I moaned, feeling suddenly bereft, as Mulder grabbed the 
damp cloth and wiped away the residue of lubricant.  I felt 
slightly chafed, but there was no pain and I answered 
Mulder's concerned inquiries with a negative.  The muscles 
of my anus clenched and released slightly as they regained 
their original level of tension in slow degrees.

I rolled over to face him and he took me into his arms 
again, kissing me passionately.  I sank into the kiss, let 
myself be rolled beneath his body.  He surrounded me, 
encased me with his body and his embrace and I felt 
sheltered and safe.

The feeling of safety wasn't to last.  After we showered, 
during the process of which we entered once more into our 
roles as Master and Kat, I made my way through the living 
room to get a glass of water from the kitchen.  There my 
eyes were once more drawn to the whips on the coffee table.  
I stared at them, unable to move, as though mesmerized by a 
deadly snake.  Somehow, over the weeks we had been playing, 
the whips had become an interesting novelty, something we 
had gotten not for actual use, but for effect.  Somehow I'd 
never quite managed to assimilate the idea Mulder might 
actually strike me, much less with a foreign object.

But it wasn't Mulder who would be striking me.  It was my 
Master, and he had an entirely different set of rules of 
interaction by which he dealt with me.  There were times I 
had the feeling Mulder was still seeing me as Scully while 
we played, rather than Kat.  Was I guilty of the same 
error?  I stared down at the display on the table and 
willed myself to think of the situation not as Scully, but 
as Kat.

I, Kat, had done something for which I had to be punished, 
and I accepted that.  But I would have to choose the 
punishment, and ask for it to be given to me, and that I 
wasn't as sure of.  In the great scheme of things, where 
did my rebellion rank?  To my own thinking, it was the 
worst offense I could have given, for I had willfully 
disobeyed.  I had scoffed and sneered and insulted my 
Master, I had refused to yield my body to him, which was 
his rightful due.  I couldn't imagine any worse a fuck-up 
than what I had done, and for that, the punishment would 
need to be severe.

The problem was, I had no basis for judging "severe" from 
"moderate" from "mild."  And was it a "one size fits all" 
issue, or was it subjective?  Perhaps what was severe for 
me might be laughable to someone else.  If I chose the 
course of punishment that seemed most appropriate for my 
offense, would it be more than I personally could bear?  
How then could I choose what should be used and how?  And 
how on earth could I *ask* for pain to be inflicted upon 
me?

"Kat?"

I jumped, spinning to see my Master standing in the doorway 
to the bedroom, watching me.

"I was waiting for my glass of water, but if you've reached 
your decision, we can proceed with your punishment."

His face was inscrutable to me.  I knew this must be hard 
for Mulder, but in his Master persona, he seemed calm and 
composed.  He'd told me earlier he wasn't up for it 
emotionally, but now he was saying we could go ahead if I 
was ready.  Did that mean he'd resolved whatever conflicts 
existed within himself about punishing me?  If he had, then 
I could give the go ahead and get it over with--I wouldn't 
have to worry about it anymore...

All I had to do was choose the instrument, choose the 
number of strokes, and ask him to do it.  Simple, right?

I made to open my mouth and found myself shaking my head, 
instead.

"I'm not ready," I whispered.  "I haven't decided."

He nodded, his expression still unreadable.  "Then get the 
water and come to bed.  It's getting late."

He went back into the bedroom, leaving me alone in the 
living room.  A long moment later, I retrieved the glass of 
water, turned out the lights, and followed him.


End of Part Four of Five

Aphrodisia IV - Exploring the Boundaries (Part 5 of 5)
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns
kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com

As it ended up, my Master wasn't all that interested in 
sleeping when I got to bed.

In short order, I found myself bound, spread-eagled with a 
couple pillows beneath my hips, to the bed and blindfolded 
while he played his favorite game.  In short, he drove me 
nuts.

First came the sensation play--soft objects, hard objects, 
sharp objects, they touched me everywhere.  It was similar 
to what he had done that first night we had played together 
in my apartment with the feather, but on a broader scale.  
I couldn't see what he was using, didn't know what he was 
doing; all I knew was something soft would whisper over my 
skin for a small eternity, sensitizing me until I was ready 
to scream, only to be replaced my something rough, 
bordering on painful.  When he had me writhing with 
discomfort, it would change again.

Feather dusters, fleece mitts, empty fountain pens--he'd 
even once bought body paint and used me as his canvas.  And 
me?  I had nothing to do but lie there and take it, wonder 
what he was up to now.  It was maddening and exhilarating 
all at once.

After the sensation play came the sex play.  That's not to 
say we had sex--if his penis ever came out of his boxers 
until he was done playing with me, I was unaware of it.  
No, this game had two variations of the same theme--he 
would either tease and taunt me, bringing me to the brink 
of orgasm again and again and then letting me down, or he 
would try to see how many times he could make me climax 
before I passed out.  He was damnably good at both.

I had no idea which he would do tonight; sometimes it was a 
combination of both.  He started by fucking me with the 
large dildo we'd bought.  An easy eleven inches long and 
two inches in diameter, I sometimes swore I could feel it 
rubbing against my pelvis from inside me.  Hard and deep, 
over and over, he thrust it into me.  It slammed against my 
cervix, stretched the fornix until I was taking it all.  I 
grunted with each impact, panting harder as the large, 
mushroom-shaped head of the dildo passed by my G-spot again 
and again, bringing me closer and closer to the edge...

At which point he stopped.  The dildo wasn't withdrawn, 
however.  I could feel it inside me, filling me, my 
internal muscles contracting around it.  I was still 
wondering what he was up to when I felt something icy-cold 
against my thigh.  At first I thought it was water, or ice, 
but it didn't feel wet, and there was a small tinkling 
sound.

There was a moment when he did something with the dildo--he 
wasn't doing it to *me* per se, but was more like he was 
making adjustments of some kind, a slight rotating motion I 
couldn't discern a purpose for.  Then I felt him grip one 
of my tightly stretched labia at the side of the dildo and 
pinch it.

And kept on pinching it, lightly, not painfully.  It wasn't 
until he repeated the process on the other side that I 
realized the pinching was not being done by his fingers; 
he'd placed the nipple clamps on my labia.  If I could 
judge the feel of the clamps correctly, he'd used the V-
shaped clamps with the rubber sleeves on the tips.  A spasm 
rippled through my gut at the thought.  My vagina tightened 
and pushed against the dildo inside me--which in turn 
pulled on the clamps.  I moaned loudly, amazed and aroused.  
Somehow, he'd arranged things so any attempt to expel the 
dildo would pull on the chain connecting the clamps and 
thus my labia.  In essence, I couldn't expel the dildo, and 
any attempt to do so would cause discomfort.

To demonstrate the point, he spent several long moments 
tugging lightly at the base of the dildo.  Each pull on my 
vaginal lips sent another wave of arousal through me--it 
didn't hurt, or if it did, it was an ever so slightly 
pinching pain, but it was intense.  I breathed a sigh of 
relief when he slid the dildo deep inside me and left it 
there.

Then, a buzzing noise I'd come to associate with the 
battery-operated vibrator he'd purchased filled the room.  
He started with my breasts, teasing my sore nipples with 
the instrument until I was moaning and squirming.  My 
earlier experience with the nipple clamps had left me far 
too sensitive to endure much stimulation, and yet--

I found myself wishing he'd put them back on me, even 
though they had hurt.  I wanted the pain, wanted to be so 
overwhelmed with sensation I couldn't bear it anymore.  I 
wanted to cry out and beg for mercy when none would be 
forthcoming...I didn't know how to let him know this, 
though.  I couldn't bring myself to ask him to hurt me.  
But I wanted it, oh, how I wanted it...

When he lightly pinched my nipple between his fingers, I 
yelped and then moaned a loud "yes," hoping he'd take the 
hint that it was okay, that I didn't mind more nipple play.  
He tormented my nipples with the vibrator for a long while 
before he finally took the chance.  He set the clamps, with 
their cold steel chain, on my chest while he murmured to 
me, "be sure to use your safe-word if it gets to be too 
much."

It was too much; far, far too much!  Even the loosest 
pressure the clamps could provide was excruciating.  I 
writhed and sobbed.  It hurt, oh God, it hurt...I never 
wanted it to end.  Even with the nipple clamps on, he 
continued to apply the vibrator to my breasts, and the 
sensation was beyond amazing...my nipples were numb and yet 
they burned unbearably.  Every movement of my body as I 
helplessly sought relief from the torment at my breasts 
caused the rubber cock still buried in me to shift and tug 
at the chain attached to the clamps on my labia.  I could 
feel how wet I was--my vagina felt loose even around the 
gigantic dildo.  My body was so tense with a combination of 
pain and arousal I could hardly stand it.

I bit my lip to keep from begging him to ease my torment--
if I begged him to stop, he just might do it, and I 
couldn't bear that either.  I couldn't plead for mercy, 
couldn't...

...couldn't remain silent any longer.  I wailed, sobbing in 
my agony, and a breathless babble began to stream from my 
lips.  Oddly, as I began to verbalize my suffering, it 
became more bearable.  It was as though holding the torment 
inside had made it all much worse.  Thankfully, he didn't 
stop, didn't heed my pleas for a reprieve.  What he did do 
was trail the vibrator down my torso to my belly and begin 
tickling me with it.

When the tip of the device dipped into my navel, my body 
arched, moving of its own volition to get away from what 
was being inflicted upon it.  No relief was forthcoming, 
however.  The tickling continued, up my ribs and into my 
underarm, over my breast and across my collarbone.  As it 
trailed down my sternum, I could feel the vibrations in my 
lungs and heart.  Then a teasing at my groin, at the 
sensitive, ticklish skin where hip meets belly.  It moved 
down my thighs to under my knees, and all the way to my 
feet.  I kicked and yelled helplessly, but it didn't stop.  
It moved up the other leg in reverse of the manner it had 
gone down the first, and then it was between my thighs.

I was hoarse and my throat dry with my exclamations by this 
point, and still I kept speaking.  Pleas for mercy were 
interspersed with groans and wails and yelps.  If it was 
possible to be in heaven and hell simultaneously, I was 
there.  There was pain, pain beyond what I could ever 
imagine I could bear, but there was also unbelievable 
pleasure.  Pleasure of the thick simulated cock filling me, 
pleasure of the vibrator pressing against my perineum, my 
labia--the chain on the lower set of clamps vibrating 
rapidly against my sensitive flesh.  The vibrator went away 
for a moment, and the dildo, which had been creeping out of 
my body millimeter by millimeter, was firmly re-inserted, 
easing the pressure on my lips.  He pressed against it, 
pushing it against my back wall, then released, and 
repeated the motion.  Press, release, press, release, 
press, release...fucking me with barely any movement at 
all...

And then the vibrator...my clit, hard and throbbing and 
unbearably sensitive.  A single touch was all it took to 
set me off and I was coming...and coming...and coming, as 
though I'd never stop.  He moved the vibrator in easy 
circles on my clit with the same consistent pressure, 
neither too hard nor too soft, and not stopping no matter 
how I jerked or wriggled or screamed.  The pain in my 
nipples, the fullness in my vagina, the tension on my 
labia--all of it was insignificant next to the relentless 
pleasure.

It might have been multiple orgasms or just one that 
wouldn't stop, but whatever it was, I was ready to lose 
consciousness.  As reality began fading in and out, he 
released the clamps on my nipples simultaneously.  Pain 
surged through my breasts, white-hot agony that possessed 
my body for a split instant.  Every muscle tightened, my 
whole body stiffened and went taut.  I screamed 
breathlessly, pulling my wrists and ankles against the 
bonds.  He soothed my breasts with one hand, caressing and 
kneading and stroking the pain away, even as the other held 
the vibrator to my clitoris.  Even through the pain, the 
contractions were unrelenting.

When he finally pulled the vibrator away from my clitoris, 
I lay stunned and shaking and exhausted, residual shudders 
running through my body with the aftershocks of what I had 
experienced.  My skin was damp with sweat and droplets of 
moisture had pooled between my breasts and in the hollow at 
the base of my throat.  My Master, leaning over me, dipped 
his head down and licked them away, caressing my skin with 
his tongue.  He very gently suckled my nipple and I 
whimpered softly, for even that tender pressure was 
excessive in my hypersensitive state.

He released the clamps on my labia, which didn't hurt 
nearly as much as it did when they were on my breasts, and 
withdrew the dildo from my vagina.  I could feel my 
internal muscles contract, adapting to the sudden 
emptiness, and then he was lying beside me, pressed against 
my still-bound body.  His erection was steel-hard against 
my hip, pulsing with a life of its own.  I wanted to ease 
his condition, to see him come selfishly, without thought 
for my pleasure.

Speaking was all but impossible.  I licked my dry lips and, 
picking up on the cause of my problem, he gave me a long 
drink of water, then reached for my wrist, ostensibly to 
release me from the cuffs.

"No!" I gasped, and he looked up at me in surprise, his 
eyes dark and intent on mine.  "Please--I want--"

Damn, I didn't know why it should be so hard for me, had 
never even realized before that asking for what I wanted 
was a problem.  Never in a previous relationship or even 
with Mulder had I been able to express my desires without 
being prompted, if not cornered and forced into it, first.  
But now he wasn't asking me what I wanted, wasn't trying to 
pull the words from me.  He was just waiting, calmly, until 
I told him what was on my mind.

"Please, Master, I want--" I drew a deep breath, hesitated, 
and then plunged forward.  "I want you to use me."

There was a flicker of--something--on his face, but I 
couldn't decipher it.  His nostrils flared and his 
expression tightened ever so slightly.  I felt his body 
quiver.

"Like the video we watched," I said finally, beginning to 
feel foolish.  Those movies were asinine in their treatment 
of women--why would I ever want to be treated like one of 
the porn queens who were used so casually in them?

Because I wanted, just for a while, to focus on his 
pleasure and his alone, and if there was one thing I'd 
learned about those films, it was that they were designed 
for male viewers' pleasure.  In those movies, though, the 
action seems degrading and defiling of women--but Mulder 
loved me, and there was the difference.  He could never 
defile me, no matter what we did.

He didn't force me to elucidate any further.  Instead, he 
bent forward to kiss me.  His tongue plundered my mouth, 
robbing me of breath, exploring every recess.  He buried 
his hands in my hair and held my head stationary for his 
kiss.  His teeth nibbled at my lips before at long last, he 
settled between my thighs and plunged his cock into me with 
one fast thrust.

"Oh, God..." I moan softly.  The dildo had loosened me to 
the point where his own not inconsiderable size barely 
registered, but what I could feel of him inside me, 
combined with the pressure of his pelvis against my 
clitoris, was sweet beyond imagining.  He moved in and out 
in rapid thrusts, panting above my face as he supported his 
weight on his arms.

This wasn't working, wasn't what I wanted.  I wanted to 
focus on *his* pleasure, and even what small pleasure I 
felt this way was too much.  It distracted me.

"No!" I gasped, startled by a particularly deep thrust.  He 
froze and looked at me again, waiting silently for me to 
tell him what I wanted.  "My mouth..." I whispered, closing 
my eyes with embarrassment.  "I want you to fuck my mouth."

I couldn't bring myself to look at him as he moved into 
position, straddling my chest.  The position was almost an 
exact re-enactment of the movie we had watched together.  
He held my head with his hands and shifted his hips 
forward.  When his cock brushed my lips, wet with my fluids 
and his pre-ejaculate, I opened my mouth for him and he 
slid inside.

His moan rumbled through both our bodies, and I sighed 
around his penis, tasting my own musky essence as I 
concentrated on breathing through my nose.  There was the 
raw, animal smell of sex on him, underscored by the soap 
he'd cleaned with during our shower earlier.  It was hard 
to breathe--his body was almost covering my face, and I had 
to struggled with a momentary sense of claustrophobia.  
Then he began to thrust, and everything else was forgotten 
as I willed myself to relax my mouth and throat.

He was doing it--fucking my mouth as he had any other part 
of my body, thrusting in and out with abandon.  The angle 
kept his thrusts from becoming too deep and triggering my 
gag reflex for the moment, until I could relax into what we 
were doing.  When the moment came that he shifted and 
changed angles to go deeper, I was ready for him.  He slid 
into my throat and back out again effortlessly.

Holding me roughly by the hair, he continued that way.  I 
could feel his cock growing even harder, swelling even 
more.  His thrusts became less restrained, the sounds that 
emanated from him as he towered over me more animalistic.  
He was going to do it, going to come in my mouth.  I could 
feel it in the tightening of his balls against my chin...

Which was, of course, when a particular thrust hit the 
wrong spot and I choked.

I coughed and spluttered after he withdrew, drawing in a 
few uncomfortable breaths while he quivered above me, 
getting himself back under control.

"Are you okay?" he asked tenderly, stroking my face softly.  
So gentle and chaste was that moment of concern, one could 
almost fail to notice his was straddling my torso with his 
dick bumping my chin.

Drawing another ragged breath, I nodded.  "Please, don't 
stop."

He bit his lip as though nervous, which I could understand.  
He didn't want me to choke again, and it was much more 
likely to happen a second time now.  Then a decisive look 
crossed his face, and he reached for the bedside table.  He 
came back with a handful of the water-based lube we used, 
which, after he slid further down my body, he smeared over 
the inner slopes of my breasts and sternum.

He squeezed my breasts together and, positioning himself, 
thrust his cock between them.  The pressure of his hands on 
my nipples was enough to remind me how tender I was, but I 
relished the discomfort as yet another testament to the 
fact that this act was solely about his pleasure, not my 
comfort.  His lubricant-coated palms were wet and sticky as 
they clutched the mounds of flesh.

The breath was driven from me as he thrust, hard and fast, 
between my breasts, again and again.  I lifted my head and 
began bestowing licks upon the head of his cock as it 
emerged from the passage he had created.  Between our 
bodies, the air was rife with his dark, musky odor and my 
own scent.  But even as I observed all of this, he kept 
thrusting, his eyes fixed on my face, glazed with passion.  
His jaw was slack and his breathing ragged.  Faster and 
harder, he moved.  The head of his cock each time it peeked 
out from between my breasts became redder and more swollen.  
He began to growl and groan, spitting words of pleasure out 
with each breath.

I watched his cock as though mesmerized as it appeared and 
then disappeared again.  His body quaked above mine and 
then, as the head emerged again, a jet of milky-white fluid 
erupted from it to splash onto my chest and shoulders.  The 
next stream hit my chin and cheek as he released my breasts 
and braced himself with his hands on the wall above the 
headboard.  As some semen sprayed over my lips, I lapped it 
away as the porn queen I had imagined myself being would, 
catching it with my tongue and sucking it into my mouth.  
His taste was salty and bitter, but I swallowed it happily.

My chest and face were something of a mess when he finally 
sank down onto the bed beside me.  His breathing was still 
harsh as he released my wrists from the restraints and 
massaged my hands to make sure no impairment of the 
circulation had caused any trouble.  His semen was growing 
cold on my skin, but I wasn't about to complain.  Honestly, 
it was only a few seconds until he'd collected himself 
enough to fetch another wet cloth and clean me up.

With my ankles now released as well, I took the cloth from 
his hands and wiped away what residue he had missed in his 
careful ministrations while he collapsed on the bed.  We 
were both silent, content and sated.  I went into the 
bathroom to wash a little better than just the cloth would 
allow, cleaning away lubricant and bodily fluids with soap 
and water.  When I emerged, he'd remade the bed and put 
away the ropes and cuffs with which I'd been bound.

"Thank you, Master," I murmured, kneeling next to the 
bedside.  I took his hand and kissed it, caressing it with 
my face.  I let myself luxuriate in my role as adoring 
submissive for a moment.

With his other hand, he stroked my head as one would a 
beloved pet, running his fingers over my hair.  Each time 
we played, I felt more truly his.  It was liberating and 
exhilarating, the freedom I knew when I let myself belong 
to him.  Dana Scully could never have asked for and done 
the things I had done this evening as Kat, and she would 
never know the kind of fulfillment I knew right now.  
Filled with joy and wonder, I let my Master pull me to my 
feet and settle me into bed.  He curled his body around 
mine, our naked flesh pressed together, and sleep slowly 
overtook us.  In the instant before I finally succumbed to 
slumber, I remembered our last unfinished bit of business 
for the day--the punishment I was to choose.  But then it 
was too late--my Master was already asleep, and I was 
rapidly following him.  Anything else would have to wait 
until the next Saturday.


END of APHRODISIA IV - Exploring the Boundaries

Special Note:
In a D/s dynamic, "no" doesn't necessarily mean "no."  A 
safe-word is assigned for the express purpose of giving 
the submissive the ability to "fight" and to say "no" and 
feel they are being forced without actually halting the 
action.  A Dominant has the right to disregard a 
submissive's refusal for any given act (unless it takes 
the form of the safe-word) because the submissive has 
given the Dominant that right prior to the act itself.    
Some D/s relationships will even discard the use of a 
safe-word, but that is a very special kind of trusting 
relationship reached after a great deal of negotiation 
between partners who know each other's limits *EXTREMELY* 
well.

That means that in the sort of situation depicted in this 
story, Scully's refusal to capitulate and Mulder's use of 
force in a sexual context *does not* equal rape.  I would 
never in any way, shape, or form condone rape, even the 
kind seen in so many fan-fics where "he forces her, but 
then she realizes she likes it."  Rape is a heinous crime 
in which a person's power and control over their own body 
is stolen without their consent.  What is depicted in this 
chapter is a scene from a relationship where one partner 
has, willingly and with full informed consent, given over 
her personal power and control over her body to the other 
partner.  Flames about rape-fic in disguise will be used 
to light my Christmas candles.


Feedback will be welcomed at kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com