"I need to grab a couple of things. Wait right there, please. Don't move."

Right. I'm not going anywhere.

He is only gone for a couple of moments – it's not exactly a large apartment – and when he returns, he has some unfamiliar items in his hands. They're black and leathery. I stare in fascination; my imaginary idea of being "tied up" has so far been limited to things like scarves and curtain ropes, because those things are a normal part of my daily life, whereas articles made of black-dyed leather are not. The smell of the leather is intoxicating. It's not a shoe store smell at all. It's sharper. It's almost narcotic. It goes up into my nostrils when I breathe, down through my lungs, and out places to which I never expected lungs to have any connection.

"Hold out your wrists."

I hold them out obligingly. I want to see what these things are and how they work.

They're a pair of leather manacles, cushioned and lined with some kind of velvety soft fabric, adjusted with holes and buckles, shiny silvery things that look as attractive to my perverted magpie eyes as the leather itself. He uses the tightest setting.

Then he puts my wrists over my head and affixes them to something that goes click. It appears to be a clip, attached to a chain, attached to an eye bolt screwed into the futon frame. I had no idea that it was even there. How interesting.

"Your wrists are almost too thin for these to properly restrain you." He looks down at me with a concerned expression. "I've always noticed you were slender, of course, but goodness, that's thin. Are you getting enough to eat?"

"Yes."

"Hmm."

The other black, leathery thing is a riding crop.

"Riding crops are very versatile," he says, as he settles into a kneeling position and picks up the crop. "You'll want to have one of your own eventually. The one you saw in the mall – if it was the same store I'm thinking of – was cheap and shoddy and would not have been good for much other than show; you'll want something a little more high-end if you want to use it as a whip. The cheap version you saw will also be hard to clean because it's braided suede, and whatever soap or other cleaner you use on it will tend to get lodged in the braided parts – another strike against it."

My voice is an octave higher than normal when I ask, "So, what do you do with it?" I hadn't intended on that. Oops.

Sangfroid apparently isn't one of my more reliable virtues when I'm facing a riding crop.

"Attend." He takes the handled end and thrusts it gently under my chin, forcing my head back. "Many people find this a little intimidating, especially when they are immobilized or otherwise helpless, possibly because of the threat of the riding crop itself being used."

"Um. Yes, I can see that."

"Your voice is shaking. Did you know that? By the way, I remind you that you are to be silent and still until I give you leave when you are receiving lessons. From now on, be quiet, please. Another use for the riding crop: you can gently stroke a slave's nerve endings to provoke arousal. If you are knowledgeable of such things as pressure points and nerve paths, the effect can be quite explosive. Different people, of course, can have different sensitive spots. I haven't had a chance to find all of yours yet; in time, I imagine I will."

Do I get to return the favor? I wonder. Practice makes perfect, after all... The possibility intrigues me. Then thought ceases as he pushes the flap of the crop gently behind my ear and trails it along my jawline, down to my collarbone. Then down and around my breasts, circling my nipples, first one, then the other. Then back again. Up and down, until he strokes my cheek with the shaft and places its length against my lips. There it rests. Eventually, I figure out that I'm supposed to kiss it, so I press my lips against the leather, imagining that I am kissing not an inanimate object, but flesh. The crop is an extension of my lover now, and I kiss it fervently.

"Good," he says, and once again the shaft moves along my cheek until the flap is again stroking my skin, moving down to trace the outlines of my breasts, small circles that spiral in until he is rubbing my nipples back and forth with the leather. He gives my left one a light smack. I gasp and force myself to hold still. I want to groan; I want to sway into the motion of the strokes. But that is forbidden to me.

He trails the flap down my abdomen slowly until it is hovering between my legs, stroking my clitoris, rubbing up against my labia with the shaft end, back and forth in a massaging motion until I feel a cry building at the bottom of my throat, escaping my mouth as a faint, high-pitched keening despite my best efforts to remain silent. He taps me on my clit, and I gulp. It wasn't even a very hard tap, it didn't hurt me at all, and yet suddenly I am terrified.

"Shh, now," he murmurs, leaning down to touch my cheek. "I've got you. Are you all right? You may nod or shake your head."

I nod.

"Is this still what you want?" He caresses my face with his free hand.

I nod again.

He leans over, covers my lips with his, my body with his body, and my world becomes stable again. It had been shaking, or I had been shaking, but I hadn't even fully noticed until I felt his flesh against mine, reassuring me with its warmth. I relax into him as he grounds me with kisses and heat.

Don't stop. Please, don't stop.

"I'm here," he says, and he buries me under his weight. His lips are so soft, his breath so delicious. We sigh into each other as our tongues duel.

When he pulls away, I notice he is slightly breathless. I, on the other hand, am oddly full of energy.

"Let us continue. Various parts of the riding crop can be used on the genitals, in various ways, depending on whether your slave is male or female, and on whether that person is into pain. Not all submissives have a masochistic streak; not all dominants are sadists. If your objective is to produce pleasure that does not involve pain, you might try using the handle for penetration... Hold still, please. And I remind you again, do not make any noise. I want you to keep your sounds, and energy, inside." He would have to illustrate that one. "Until I say otherwise." Of course, he tells me this as he proceeds to do everything possible to make me writhe and cry out.

Pressure, little nudges. Oh, God.

It's very difficult to keep still and silent when the head of his riding crop is pushing at some of my more sensitive areas. I glare at him. So far, that's still acceptable.

"Consider this honing your willpower; you'll need it when you're the dominant. Willpower is important when your submissive asks you to stop doing something, and you don't want to stop, but have to stop anyway. That is what the social contract demands. Scene etiquette requires consent, even when you are perpetuating the illusion of non-consent. Speaking of which, since many submissives like to have you pretend that they are being forced to submit, they may scream 'no,' or 'stop,' or 'mercy,' or something like that, without meaning it literally, which is one reason why safewords are important. A safeword is a word that all parties agree on that means 'I really do mean stop.' The other major reason safewords get used is that dominants are as human as the next person and are as likely as anyone else to get carried away in the heat of the moment if things get very intense; a safeword sounds a bit incongruous and is more likely than 'no' or 'stop' to get an impassioned dominant's attention and halt the activity, should that be necessary. What would you like to be yours? You have leave to answer."

I think. I try to think, anyway. Martial arts. "Mate," I reply, a bit unsteadily, partly because what he's still doing with the head of the riding crop (good grief, he never even paused. Not once) is nothing I want to associate with the word "stop."

"That would work well," he muses. "I studied aikido some years ago, also ninjutsu and a couple of other martial arts; hearing the word mate would make me stop automatically. It's almost Pavlovian. When not given leave to speak or make noise, meanwhile, please pound three times with your fist, or flex your hand three times, or grunt three times in succession. I will be watching for it. When you are in a position of power over someone, you should do the same. It does not have to be the three thumps or grunts, of course; it can be anything the two of you agree on. Are you getting all that?"

I nod yes.

The handle of the crop continues to push against me with an impatient sort of stiffness and weight. I gasp, choking on the screams of pleasure I'm holding inside. So close.

"Good. Roll over."

He hasn't moved the head of the riding crop yet. It's still shoved inside me. Rolling over proves interesting; the fact that I can't use my arms doesn't help much, either. I hope I look cute when I'm flopping around like a fish and humping myself on the head of a crop.

Unfortunately, he stops what he's doing before I can come again and pulls the crop handle out. The loop of the wrist strap trails, teasing me, and brushes my thigh on its way out, leaving me covered with the evidence of my need.

The near edge of orgasm hurts me like a knife.

"There are two other standard uses for a riding crop," he says, wiping the crop handle off with his shirt tail. "One is rather obvious. And today happens to be your birthday. You're twenty-one today, yes? Let's round it up to thirty and give you a few to grow on. It builds character. Would you like that?"

"I don't know. Maybe. There's only one way to find out."

"Yes, that's very true."

He slowly trails the tip of the riding crop down my back until it reaches my buttocks, caressing me with the shaft in slow circles until the crop rests in perfect alignment with what I suspect is the only part of my posterior to have anything resembling curves.

He lets it hover there for one long moment before he lays into me.

I don't scream. I don't grunt, flex my hand, or tap out, either.