Tom's Good Girl

Tom's Good Girl
By: ParticularlyAnonymous (particularlyanonymous@gmail.com)

I did not know what to expect when I dialed the number I had written on a scrap of paper. I brought the phone to my ear and when he picked up, I caught my breath and said softly, "I'm here." He hung up without a word.

As I stood on the porch in the freezing cold, I thought back on our conversations from weeks past. He had initially messaged me after I had posted an ad looking for someone to dominate me. Being so bold and forward was completely out of character for me, as was admitting to anyone else that I was submissive. All of my fantasies for years had contained or been based on the idea of being dominated, but it had never happened in reality.

In my daily life, I was a high school teacher, a jovial and outright goofy person who tended to thrust myself into conversations and direct their flow. I was in control of myself and of every situation I found myself in. It was this constant control that led me to desire the freedom of submission. Long before I had heard terms like "submissive" and "masochist", I was already placing myself in that role in my daydreams. I imagined a man waking me from a deep sleep, I would find myself bound and gagged, sometimes blindfolded, and always completely out of control of the situation. I would fight the man for a short while, but soon realize that it was a thrill to be bound and helpless, and I would give myself to him.

Night after night, this was my fantasy, with slight variations here and there. But in my relationships, I tended to attract and was attracted to vanilla men almost exclusively. Apparently the qualities I found so wonderful in romance and friendship turned out to be in direct conflict with my bedroom desires. So I dealt with it, sometimes asking to be punished or held down, but if the wish to dominate me wasn't present in my lover, it was a fruitless attempt.

Having been single for nearly half a year, I began to realize that if I sought out a lover based on my submissive leanings, I would at least be able to satisfy that part of me for a time, if only to get my rocks off and rejoin the "normal" dating game after getting it out of my system. I saw it as a part of me that was in the way, to a degree, and if I could just be done with these desires then I could move on and be happily vanilla.

Then Tom messaged me. From the start, I knew he was different. Literally hundreds of men had responded to my posting, and while many of them were either decades out of my age range or several states away, there were a few who stood out as potential men worth my time. However, even the most intriguing or well-spoken men had no chance once I began speaking with Tom. He was polite, almost gentlemanly, and he laughed at my jokes. We chatted online for almost 4 hours the first night, and another 3 hours the next.

It continued this way, with him neither spurning my flirtations nor pushing for a meeting, for nearly three weeks. We exchanged pictures, life stories, sexual preferences and fantasies, experiences, and the day-to-day minutiae of small talk. I learned that he was tall - not just tall, but a full foot higher than my small 5'4" frame. He was 32, 9 years older than me, and had been a Dom for many years. I told him about my need for control in almost every facet of my life and how I wanted to give some of that up. He didn't offer to take it from me, exactly...but he didn't say he wouldn't.

He did, however, give me his address and phone number, and tell me to meet him there Saturday morning at 11. This was a few days ago, and we hadn't spoken since. As I waited at his door, I became intensely paranoid that I had the wrong house, or the wrong Saturday, or the wrong time. I worried that he had forgotten. I worried that he would hate my hair or my voice or my clothes. I worried that my complete lack of experience would disappoint him and he would send me away in dismay.

I had nearly worked myself up into hysteria by the time he opened the door. I stood still, looking at the ground but stealing glances up at his face. He stared at me for several seconds with no expression on his face, then held out his hand for me to take and smiled a sly grin. "Come on," he said.

Relieved but still terrified out of my wits, I took his hand and let him guide me inside. Not wanting to get chopped up and stored in a freezer, I had arranged to call my friend shortly after 11 to let her know that I was safe; now, though, it seemed almost like I would be insulting him if I made that call. I didn't want to excuse myself or even ask his permission to do it...it just seemed rude. Thankfully, he turned to me once we were in his living room and simply said "you would do well to call your friend now, she'll be worried if you don't." I grinned uneasily and nodded.

As I hung up, he returned from the kitchen with a soda for me. "I know how contrived you think wine is in situations like this, and it's pretty early for anything stronger, so I thought this would be appropriate," he stated as he handed me the drink. All I could think was that I had no idea what "situations like this" were, but I was glad to have something to do with my hands to keep them from shaking. He walked behind me and removed my coat. I had worn the clothing I thought would please him most: a knee-length pleated skirt with black nylons, with black mary janes, and a low-cut sweater. Now, as he remained behind me, I wondered if I had chosen well. He walked back to face me and was smiling broadly; apparently I had.

He took a step forward, now only a few inches from me, and ran his hand from my jaw line to the back of my neck, gently brushing aside my hair. "I'm glad you came," he whispered. Just as I adjusted to his warm hand on my cold skin, he took it away and stepped back. He sat in an arm chair and gave me no indication that I should sit somewhere as well. He simply looked at me, smiling softly and taking stock. I scanned the room, feeling awkward and isolated, as if I were about to deliver a presentation or speech. I opened my mouth to ask him "may I sit?" but barely got to the first word before he softly interrupted, "you will speak when I direct you to. Is that understood?"

"Uh, oh, yes," I stammered, my face growing red as I became flustered. I always hated how quickly I flushed, and this was no exception.

"Good," he stated. "Put down your drink."

I did, quick to do as I was told. Faced with nothing to hold, however, I began to play with my long brown hair.

"Stop it." I put my hands at my sides. "Take off your sweater," he commanded, barely above a whisper. I stood there for a moment, unsure whether my embarrassment or his scorn would be worse, but when I heard his tone as he boomed "do it now," I knew I had better comply. I awkwardly pulled the shirt over my head, feeling literally and emotionally exposed. I put my hands back at my sides, careful not to fidget.

"Now your bra," he said. I did as I was told, but began to worry. Was I here to put on a show? How much was I going to take off with him just gawking there? Was I completely crazy to have come here? As I discarded my bra, he muttered "good" before standing up and walking toward me. I tensed up, trying to maintain good posture and not make eye contact. I had to chide myself, you're not in the military, Sara, and he's not a drill sergeant, but the metaphor seemed almost appropriate. Somehow, though, I doubt military recruits would be spanked for misbehaving.

Tom's hands never actually touched my skin as he passed them over my bare chest and back, examining me and judging me. I could feel the air move next to my flesh but it wasn't until he got ahold of my right nipple that I felt anything, and what a sensation that was. The pain of his firm grasp was nothing compared to the shock of being touched, no, grabbed like that. He kept his thumb and forefinger tightly clasped on my nipple and moved around behind me, his chest pressed against my back.

"Does it hurt?" he whispered, without a hint of maliciousness in his voice.

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you dislike it?" he asked.

I paused, wondering what the correct answer was, but replied truthfully, "no."

"Are you sure?" he teased, picking up on my hesitation.

"I'm sure," I said, becoming a little breathless from the increasing pain and the general over-stimulation. He pinched more sharply, drawing an inhalation from me and a soft moan when the pressure was lessened. He leaned down and pressed his mouth against the side of my neck. I could feel him grinning.

"This is going to be a very good day," he said, laughing softly. He released his grip and I futilely tried to organize my thoughts and catch my breath. He moved around to my side, placing a reassuring hand on my waist. "The safeword," he stated, "is red." With that, he moved away from me and, not even glancing backwards, walked out of the room and down the hall. Unsure of what was expected of me and terrified to make the wrong decision, I followed him down the hallway. I watched as he turned left and entered what appeared to be his bedroom, but stood in the doorway, just in case. His eyes met mine and he nodded, letting me know I was supposed to come in. I marveled at how his room looked "normal", as if I were expecting his townhouse to come with a dungeon installed.

I did notice, however, a small array of whips, crops, and even what appeared to be nipple clamps on top of his dresser. "I would like for you to meet some of my friends." He gestured to the items and then turned to face me. "Who would you like to meet first?"

The most pain I had experienced with a partner had been caused by clumsiness and carelessness, never by purposeful infliction. Looking at these implements, I grew afraid that I had gotten myself in over my head. Not only was I going to get hurt in a very bad way, but I was going to make a fool of myself in front of Tom. Strangely, it was the latter that upset me most. Even though he knew that I was new to this, I was still afraid that he would push me and I would falter, making a horrible first impression and proving myself unworthy of his attention.

He placed his hand on my back and looked in my eyes, reassuring me but not letting me ignore the question. I looked at my options and chose the suede crop, hoping it would be the softest. I pointed at it silently, hoping he would be pleased with my choice. He smiled, and simply said "okay."

He guided me over to the queen-size bed and turned me to him. "I want you to realize," he stated, "that this has nothing to do with me forcing you to do anything. Obviously there's an element of seeming unwillingness, but if it goes beyond that for you...if you actually don't want to do something, you are the only one who knows where your limits are and can make them clear. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said, surprised at how much better it made me feel to hear him say those things. I heard myself add, "I want to do this."

He smiled, touched my cheek with the back of his hand, and planted a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Okay," he said, "now turn around and bend over."

I complied, resting on my elbows and wondering exactly how this was going to go. He didn't make me wait long, lifting my skirt and pulling down my stockings. Having not worn underwear that day, the draft was immediate and chilly. I was waiting to be told to kick my shoes off, but the order never came. Before I realized what was happening, he had laid two swift blows on my ass, one on each cheek. Neither was particularly brutal, but they caught me off surprise and I shifted on the bed towards my outstretched hands. This, apparently, was the wrong thing to do. He twisted my hair in his free hand and slowly but firmly pulled me back to my original position.

"Don't." I didn't need the rest of that sentence to understand.

He began again, hitting my ass, thighs, back, sides, and just about every other area of exposed skin. Just as I would get used to his strokes on one body part, he would move to another. I could feel my skin sting, then throb as he left red dots and streaks all over my flesh. I tried to play valiant heroine for as long as I could, but the pain combined with the shock of each blow proved too much for me and I began to whimper and cry out with increasing volume.

It felt like an hour had passed, but I knew it couldn't be the case, because there was no way I was taking an hour of this. I began to consider using the safeword the first time my knees nearly gave out, but I didn't want to stop one second sooner than I had to. As humiliating and painful as it was, I was loving it. My fingers had long since grabbed the blanket and twisted and curled into aching fists. A series of quick and particularly harsh blows finally succeeded in taking my legs out from under me, but I scrambled to get back up to the proper position and was rewarded with a gentle caress of my back. I had no idea how much a soft touch could sting until then, his fingers tracing the slowly-appearing welts.

A few short minutes later, tears were streaming down my face and I was afraid that each strike was going to be the one to break me. Finally, after he had hit the same spot maybe two dozen times, the pain was too great for me. Through my gasps and tears, I managed to cry out "red!" and everything stopped. Tom quickly put the crop on the floor and brought me fully onto the bed, his arms around me protectively.

"You did so well, Sara," he whispered as he wiped the tears from my cheeks and tried to get my long-since disheveled hair out of my face. "I'm proud of you."

I tried very hard at first to regain composure and stop being what I perceived to be a whiny child, but I realized how soothing and pleasant it was to be comforted by Tom and, as strange as it sounds, feeling even these negative things was nice. I couldn't explain it, but there was something exhilarating about letting go in this way, and I didn't want my pride to get in the way.

After giving me a few moments to catch my breath and come down, he brought me to look at him and asked, with a devious grin on his face, "well?"

I couldn't help but laugh a little, finally replying with a quiet "that was nice." He laughed with me, obviously enjoying both my satisfaction and my awkwardness.

"I'm glad you liked it," he replied after a while. "You take pain fairly well for a novice...but there is certainly room for some training."

That word caught me off guard. "Training" not only meant more sessions like this, but it meant many more sessions like this, a continuous series in which I would be judged on performance and improvement. The thought was quite scary, but I was already looking forward to next time.

I didn't have much time to ruminate on that thought, however, as Tom quickly shifted me onto my back, careful (though not too careful) to be gentle with the areas that had sustained the most damage earlier. It was then that I realized that my stockings and shoes were still on, with the nylons bunched up awkwardly at my ankles. I chuckled meekly, and he looked and grinned as well. He removed the shoes and stockings, but left my skirt on. I didn't question it.

With my legs free to be moved any which way, Tom did just that. He spread my legs almost as wide as the bed, leaving little doubt as to the area he planned to concentrate on next. He ran his hands up my legs, purposeful with his moments and intense with his stare into my eyes. At mid-thigh, he pushed my skirt back up around my waist and smiled when he saw that I had shaved. Just like he had requested.

He kissed my inner thighs with slow and methodical movements, clearly not in a rush. I cooed softly, quietly hoping he was intending on following my legs all the way up. My wishes were granted when he gently ran his tongue up my wet slit, with him smiling broadly when my legs trembled slightly. He began to lick and suck my clit, making his expertise apparent from the start. I had trouble staying still (and staying quiet), but just as I had wanted to prove to him I could handle pain, I wanted to show him I could handle pleasure.

It didn't take long for me to get close to orgasm, but when I started to grind my hips upward and arch my back, he moved his lips down to my thighs and went back to exactly where he started. It was as though we had started over. I whimpered and looked down searching for an explanation, but he offered none. He simply went back to work, slowly spreading his affection across my legs and hips, taking his time.

When he returned to my pussy, I was prepared to sing praises at the top of my voice, but when I again got close to climax, he reverted back to teasing me. I whined louder this time, adding in the insistent pleading "please". Before I could even look down at him, he had taken three fingers and violently shoved them into my pussy.

"What did I say about you speaking?" he roared. I cried out in surprise and pain, unable to answer him. "What did I say??" He pushed even harder...I felt as though I were going to break if he kept doing this.

"I'm sorry! I forgot! I'm sorry!" I pleaded with him, squirmed and tried to get away, but he didn't relent for a moment.

"What did I say??" he repeated.

"You told me not to talk unless you said so!" I cried, tears springing to my eyes.

He slowly pulled his fingers out of me, sighing and shaking his head with disappointment. He shifted a little and moved up the bed towards me. He held the three fingers in front of my face. "Clean," he said. Even in my foggy-headed state, I knew better than to question it and began licking his fingers, tasting my own juices. When I had finished, he grunted a coarse "good" and got off the bed.

I soon realized that my infraction, and slow repentance, had cost me the orgasm I had been building all afternoon. I knew, however, that I deserved that punishment and I hoped to have the opportunity to earn one later that day.

Tom stood next to the bed for a moment, as if deciding what to do, and then promptly left the room, shutting the door behind him. I assumed I was to wait and that he would be coming back, but a few moments later I heard the TV come on in the living room and the sigh and thud that come with a big guy plopping down into a comfy chair. He had left me in the bedroom and gone to watch television.

I surprised myself with the torrent of anger and self-loathing I felt when I realized that he wasn't coming back. I couldn't manage to stay upset with Tom, however; I was more angry at myself for making him leave the room. I had let him down and performed so badly that I was now a frustration to him. I began to cry yet again, momentarily distracting myself with the surprise that I almost never cry (with the notable exception, of course, of when I watch The Lion King) and had already done it multiple times today for a range of reasons. This vulnerability frustrated me even more, which made me cry even harder. It took me a good 5 minutes to put myself together, and I decided to go out to the living room to try and work my way back into his good graces. The worst that could happen is he would send me home, and I would have rather been truly in the dog house than caught in this limbo.

I slowly walked out to the living room and found Tom the way I expected: seated comfortably in the armchair he had occupied that morning, drinking a beer and watching some college basketball game. I stood in the entrance to the hallway for a moment, waiting to see if he would take notice of me and possibly tell me to go back to the bedroom, but he didn't even look up. I walked over to the chair and knelt down next to it, facing the TV. I spent almost a half hour that way, nearly falling asleep leaning against the arm of the chair, but a distinct zipping noise perked me up. Or rather, a distinct unzipping noise. I looked over at Tom and saw that he had, in fact, undone his pants and taken his cock out. He wasn't doing anything with it...it was just out.

I knew what I had to do. I knelt in front of him, careful not to get in the way of the TV, and began to lick and stroke his dick. His face and body position revealed nothing, but his sudden erection gave him away; I was at least allowed to service him, and that was better than nothing. I put all of my effort into it, swirling my tongue around the head while stroking the shaft, then taking it in as deep into my mouth as I could, groaning and working feverishly. After a few minutes, he allowed himself to acknowledge me, moving his left hand behind my head and tangling his fingers in my hair. He began to direct my movements, guiding me up and down, letting me know how fast and hard to go. He started to grunt along with my efforts and I wasn't sure if he intended to cum in my mouth, so I just continued under the assumption that he would stop me if that wasn't the case.

Sure enough, he pulled my head away from his cock and got up out of the chair, breathing heavily. "Over the arm of the chair," he said hoarsely, and I complied quickly.

The leather on this part of the chair was cold and stuck uncomfortably to my skin. The only clothing I still had one was the skirt, which he had no plans to remove. He, however, was almost fully dressed and apparently did not mind staying that way. Soon he was behind me, pressing his cock against my backside. I lifted my torso a little bit and turned to see what he was doing, but he quickly shoved my face down into the seat of the chair and left his hand at the small of my back to keep me down. He placed his dick at the opening to my pussy and without so much as a pause, he rammed its full length inside me. Being unprepared and poorly-lubricated, the discomfort was blinding. I cried out, careful not to form words and repeat my mistake from earlier in the day.

When I got past the pain of such a sudden penetration, I was finally able to enjoy myself. As brutal and rough as this was, it was an activity I was familiar with and had been looking forward to all day. And hell...I might even get to cum!

Tom continued to ram into me, making sure to hold me firmly in place while fucking me. His free hand roamed along my ass and thighs, admiring his work from earlier, where bruises and welts were now starting to become clear. I was quickly growing more and more excited, and I desperately wanted to climax but was afraid to do so without permission. But if I couldn't ask for permission, what was I supposed to do? I chose not to say anything and try and hold off as long as possible.

Finally, I was unable to stop myself; my back arched sharply, straining against Tom's palm and signaling my impending orgasm. Tom then uttered the two best words I've ever heard in my life: "Cum. Now." I did, in spades. I cried out, no longer having to put any effort into not speaking as it was now too difficult for me to form words. I grunted and groaned, unimaginably relieved to be able to orgasm. My spasms and moans must have worked well for Tom, as he soon followed on the same path, emptying his load into my dripping pussy. He partly collapsed onto me and the chair, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. I was even worse off; even if he hadn't been on top of me, I never would have been able to get up.

A few moments later, Tom pulled away from me, zipped up, and walked into the kitchen. I wanted to straighten myself up, clean the disastrous mess of sticky cum from between my legs, and make myself presentable for when he came back. I stayed exactly as I was, however...both because I was never told to move and because I was too tired to get up. When he came back into the living room, he instructed me to sit in the chair, which I did. He handed me a small glass of water and gently kissed me on the forehead. That was enough of a signal for me to know that I had been forgiven for my earlier infraction. The punishment had been fair, and I had learned my lesson.

After giving me a few minutes to recover and rehydrate, Tom guided me back to the bedroom and laid me on the bed. "Rest and recuperate, little one. When you get up, we'll have some dinner and I'll introduce you to some more of my friends." As I glanced over at the display of whips, the feeling of fear mixed with excitement quickly returned and I fell asleep grinning at the idea of being given another chance to be Tom's good girl.