The Experiment Pt. 03

Literotic asexstories – The Experiment Pt. 03 by Unstably_Yours,Unstably_Yours
I didn’t intend on writing a sequel, but outside events have forced me to cope the only way I know how. Grief is a process that’s never truly over, much of it a realization of that person’s impact on your life.

So please excuse the saga I’ve created from the 2 part story already published. There will be 2 more chapters I’ll submit (already written), creating a total of 5. Readers can decide if they want to continue on this journey of my characters’ relationship, or leave the story as is, content to have the succinctness of my original piece. Sometimes you just need to get lost in the fantasy of someone else’s life.

Part 3

My phone is playing a song; my alarm. It’s so ungodly early, far too early, and too soon. I have to twist my arm away from him and roll over to silence my phone. Actually, I snooze it, so I can cuddle him for longer. I roll back onto my side and wrap my arm over his bare chest. He’s still sleeping, undisturbed by the noise of my alarm. I just want to keep holding onto him, absorbing his warmth, smelling his scent. Everything about him just fills my body with happiness, even when I must leave his side in no less than ten minutes otherwise I’ll be late for work.

But last night was not a figment of my imagination. I can still feel the stickiness clinging to my thighs, the salty taste on my lips. A hint of my scent still on him. Things I’d never done before, things I’ll definitely want to try again. My body finally responded, it finally felt as if I’m alive inside this body.

The jangling song of my alarm goes off again and this time he stirs as I twist away to grab my phone. He makes a quiet groan as I sit up, trying to force myself to disengage from his body. I swipe away my alarm and feel his hand take hold of my arm that’s holding my phone.

“It is too early,” he mumbles with a pouty accent.

“It’s early because I have to go to work.”

I look down into his sleepy blue eyes, a grin already on his lips. He knows it will take very little to make me stay, how easy it will be to twist me to his undeniably sexy will.

“No.”

He blurts it almost childishly, but his eyes hold a seriousness as he keeps his hand on my arm.

“But it’s my job,” I reply, half-joking and half-not. “Do you not want me to go?”

He keeps holding me, that little smirk he’s so very good at. I lean down, close enough to kiss him, but he doesn’t kiss back. He’s toying with me.

“What should I do?” I ask, getting closer, letting my lips brush against his, smelling myself all over his skin. The stand-off has backfired, and he’s forced to kiss me. A sweet little pucker, tender.

“Sleep,” he replies with instructive sarcasm.

We keep gazing into each other’s eyes, equally impressed by our self-control, impressed by how much I want him and already feel my body responding to his. But we know we should be adults, we have to return to the normal world after exploring the depths of depravity with each other.

He gives me a deeper, longer kiss, affectionately putting his other arm around me. I’m pressed into his chest, my nipples brushing into his skin, my belly feeling the shift of his body that’s curling me into him. His hand on my arm has moved down and circled my waist, cinching me up a bit so I can be properly straddled over his hips. I can feel his hard cock, brushing up against my mound. Oh fuck, I’m going to be so late…

He lets me slide across him, hearing my quiet moan, and then, cruelly he stops all movement.

“Damian…” I whine.

“You must go to work, do you not?” he teases into my lips.

I narrow my eyes at him and sigh deeply; he does not need more proof as to how much I want him after last night.

Regretfully, I tell him I’m going to take a shower, and he’s not welcome to join me. Which I don’t really mean, but I think is probably for the best if I don’t want to be late for my bus.

He behaves himself and doesn’t interrupt my freezing shower and furious routine to get ready. He simply waits for me to emerge from the bathroom; he’s already dressed and wearing his leather cycling jacket. His hair is sticking up and unruly in places. Just a hint of a shadow on his chin. He’s so fucking adorable I can barely stand it but I need to stay strong as I pour myself a cup of day old coffee and sling my satchel over my shoulder.

Instead of riding the bus, he offers to take me to work. On his motorcycle. I’m not sure this is wise. I did wear pants, but it’s cold out and my hair is still damp. And riding his bike is thrilling and sexy and I’m not sure I can pull myself away from him when he’s delivered me to my work, or if I want my coworkers to see this romantic predicament when it inevitably occurs. But he gives me a look, takes my hand, and leads me to his bike that’s still parked on the curb outside my apartment.

This time he drives more prudently, waiting more patiently at each light we come to instead of maneuvering around cars. The waiting just gives me more time to stay clinging to his body, to be curled around him. At a particularly long traffic light, I give him an affectionate squeeze and he brings a hand down to quickly pat my hands that are locked around his middle.

When we arrive at my work, he turns the engine off and holds an arm out as I get off the bike. I’m not sure what he’ll do when I take off his helmet until he just gives me a quick kiss, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He tells me to have a good day at work as I walk away; he’ll text me later. I’m not sure if he will, but I haven’t really thought this far ahead yet.

Only one of my coworkers notices my morning driver. She’s one of the senior technicians, old enough to be my mom. She just asks how my commute was this morning, a teasing reference that I arrived by bike. I tell her it was cold. She says it looked like it was at least fun being cold. I only shrug with a smile I can’t conceal.

Damian does text me later, just near five o’clock. I’ve drifted through my work in a contented post-sex haze, feeling relaxed, feeling… happy. I haven’t thought about what this next phase would be, what it would be like to be someone who is more than the client of Mr. Damian. I didn’t think about it because I didn’t think it would happen. Another variable in my experiment that I didn’t account for. Sloppy science leads to sloppy results, as they say.

He texts to say he’ll be working late, he has appointments this evening. But he could text me tonight if I want, probably close to 11:00 pm. Appointments. Shit.

I have not even considered this remotely. Mr. Damian has to work. He is going to be seeing clients, flogging them, spanking them, etc. The same Damian who has been doing those things to me, and more. My Damian is still Mr. Damian, and I don’t know if I’m ok with that.

I choke back my nausea and surging anxiety, and I text him back that’s fine. Go ahead and text me. At the time I’m usually in my jammies and reading in bed. Does this mean he’ll be coming over? Is this a possible booty call?

My evening is now a headache inducing dilemma. I berate my lack of forethought into what was going to happen after I slept with him. After we fucked for hours and he made me so thoroughly satisfied that I couldn’t stop smiling. After he made me come a second time, when he whispered in my ear that he was going to make me come again, the sultry promise delivered. My body selfishly starts aching with this thought, its needy desires try to convince my brain that I can make this work.

I can figure out the variables and possibilities. I can plan for an outcome that is successful. But what is success? I wanted to climax during sex. That goal was achieved; albeit at the hands of Mr. Damian. So what should my next phase be? What was it, Siena? What the hell did you think was going to happen?

Shortly after 11:00 pm, I get a text.

It is late, and I know you must get up early for work, much earlier than me. But I could not let you go to sleep without first saying goodnight.

It’s simple, sweet. And I’m again without a plan since I assumed it would be the booty call. Which now I’m realizing is what I sort of wanted. So, now I just thank him.

Thank you for thinking of me…Have a good night.

Goodnight Siena

I can hear his voice saying my name with his accent, and my selfish lust is intercepted. This time, the corresponding ache is in my heart. Along with a pang of guilt.

Thursday comes and goes like any other workday, but with less contentment. My senior coworker asks me about my commute again; I tell her the bus was a little warmer. But less fun, she adds. I shrug back and feel like a sociopath. I keep my thoughts of him tucked away, trying to safeguard the combustible response of my feelings. Feelings I don’t want to share with others, when I can’t share how this started.

Later that night, he texts around the same time, and we exchange a few courtesy questions- how was your day, how was work, etc. I feel he is trying, and I feel tired and sort of… cranky. My body is impatiently stirring, it’s been keyed-up since this morning when I decided not to masturbate in the shower. And I have been thinking of him at his work, envying his customers, wondering if he thinks of the keyed-up Miss Siena when he is with them. Worse, wondering if any of his clients crave more than his agreed upon services.

I miss you.

I text this and hate myself for being greedy. I’m the person who won’t take the last cookie, or the last slice of cake at a birthday party. Even if it was my birthday. I think someone else will enjoy it more, someone who really wants it. Finally, I want the cookie. I want the sugary slice of cake, I want to lick every bit of his frosting off my fingers. And I don’t want to share this treat. With anyone. But it feels selfish.

Will I see you tomorrow night?

He’s asking because tomorrow is Friday. The day of my usual appointment with him. With Mr. Damian. I have been debating this for the past two days, wondering what I should do. Ultimately I decided I would see if he brought it up, if he wants more from me. Question is, does he want me or does he want a customer?

Do I need an appointment to see you?

I feel clever about this, until I get his response.

Mr. Damian’s last appointment is at 7. He is available for house calls after that.

I suddenly feel warm all over, and very tempted to ask him to make a house call right now.

Miss Siena would like that. If Mr. Damian is willing to travel here after a hard day of work?

It would be his pleasure to give Miss Siena his services, free of charge.

His very personal services?

Yes

I can only text back a grinning emoji face.

My days of debating my romantic future are forgotten in my anticipation of tonight. Work was almost a nuisance to get through; everyone thought I was simply eager for the weekend. My senior coworker knows better, but she only smiles at me with a knowing look as I wish her a good night.

I vacuum my floor and clean my bathroom. I wipe down countertops and table tops. I wish I had a four poster bed, even if they seemed too juvenile when I was leaving home for college. Nothing in my apartment seems very sturdy when I analyze it in terms of being used for leverage or bearing weight. I also realize I have nothing that is useful in terms of bondage. Not even a man’s silk tie. I have some fleece winter scarves, that’s it.

All my preparations are done and I’m idly waiting, sitting on my couch when I hear the faint sounds of a high-pitched engine climbing up the hill. A motorcycle. I dash out of my apartment and go into the stairwell of my building so I can look out the small window that overlooks the street. I see his shiny bike pull up, I watch him take off his helmet. He runs a hand through his hair, tidying up the unruly strands that I will dishevel later.

I go to meet him at the door to my building. I’m holding open the door as he walks up, unzipping his cycle jacket. He’s giving me that secretive smile, the smile that unnerves me and thrills me. There’s a shock of color as he reveals a small bouquet of flowers he’s been concealing inside his jacket.

I take the bundle of pink and purple, tulips and carnations with some small lilies mixed in. And for once I see a hint of uncertainty in his eyes; he hopes I like them. That I like said gesture, and that I still like him. My lusty desires have been ignoring that unaccounted-for variable. But without really processing the implications, I’m smiling. A little tickle inside my chest that feels giddy and warm. I’ve never been given flowers by a man.

My smile reassures him, and he leans in for a quick kiss. I kiss him back demurely, a pucker with closed lips. When I pull away he smirks; he knows I’ll only behave myself for so long. We walk up the stairs to my apartment and I decide to ask him how his work day was. The very unique work that I haven’t quite reconciled with in my thinking of how this affects us.

“It was work,” he replies cagily, plodding up the steps in his heavy boots behind me.

“Hard work?” I ask. When he doesn’t reply, I take a peek over my shoulder to see his expression: a raised eyebrow over a narrowed strip of blue. Another smirk.

We’ve reached my door when he asks how my work day was. I tell him it was long. And very hard. He chuckles at my corny innuendo as I close my door behind him.

Before I can get carried away, I go to my kitchen. He excuses himself to use the restroom while I set about putting my flowers in some water. My flowers. I feel a sort of girlish pride for such a simple thing. But I also feel guilty, an undeserved gift.

When he comes out of the bathroom, I’m at my sink, drying off my hands. I turn to see him standing beside my small kitchen table, gazing at me and my flowers. That easy smile on his lips, the one he’d greet me with at the door to The Dungeon. Except that smile is now here in my apartment.

All of my body responds to just the simple look in his eyes. The hungry ache inside me wants to be acknowledged, bringing me over to him. I stop just in front of him, giving him what I think is the look of me asking, hoping. I want to be with him, but I also want Mr. Damian.

He brings a hand up to my chin, assessing me with his sultry blue. He leans down just a bit, teasing me with the proximity of a kiss that he’s holding back.

“My Friday would not be the same without a visit from Miss Siena,” he hushes.

“My Friday wouldn’t be the same without seeing Mr. Damian, but now that I know he offers house calls…” I trail off with a grin.

His eyes flash with delight. Our flirting has communicated we are both of one mind. He brings his hand down to my collarbone, lightly running the tips of his fingers down my sternum with a glance at my body. A thoughtful pause before he speaks.

“Miss Siena shall need to prepare herself.” It’s instructive and a warning at the same time, a tone of voice that makes me warm all over.

I look him straight in the eye, being sure we understand each other.

“Yes, Mr. Damian.”

He takes his hand away and I go to my bedroom. I take off my shirt and jeans, leaving on my bra and panties in charcoal gray lined with black lace. I put my hair up into a ponytail, making sure it’s snug enough in case he puts a hand around it, which I hope he does.

When I come back out to my living room, he’s rolled up the sleeves to his button down shirt, a dark midnight blue, and he’s holding onto a leather belt. I recognize it’s the belt he was wearing. I almost laugh; I can’t believe I didn’t think about that. I must own half a dozen leather belts.

He’s standing in the center of my living room, made easier since he’s pushed aside my small glass coffee table. I go to where he stands and kneel in front of him. His eyes watch me as I slowly lower myself, a satisfied but restrained smile as I get on my knees. I should put my head down, but I decide I need to keep staring up at him. I take a breath, gazing up so happily, feeling this strange but powerful certainty. Something in me needs this. But why? I want to understand it more, to understand the reason behind my want. All I know is my body aches the moment I submit to him. The moment I let him know I am all his.

“Put your hands up, Siena.”

His words alone make the aching stronger. I hold up my arms, keeping my wrists together. He loops the belt around both wrists, carefully cinching it up through the metal clasp until the clasp is flat against my arm. He keeps it snug but not digging in by cleverly looping the end of the belt under the clasp, tying it in a knot of sorts. For some reason it makes it even better that this is an article of his clothing, a more personal way to restrain me.

“Bend down and place your arms on the floor, Siena, resting your head on your arms.”

“Yes, Mr. Damian.”

I bend over like I’m going to pray to Mecca, sticking my ass up with my head down on my bent arms. Another pleasurable ache to be bent in such a way, to have him see me like this. I feel his hands go down to my ankles and push one foot farther apart, then the other. And then I hear him take something from the table, and return to my kneeling form. He lifts one foot up, but keeps my knee bent and touching the floor. He’s bending the foot up towards the ceiling until its parallel with my thigh. The slick feel of leather is going around my leg, encircling where my ankle touches my thigh. His careful hands make it snug, but not painful. Not yet.

Another pause, and then another belt is being secured on my other leg. This is a little more difficult when he raises my other foot, all my weight pitches forward onto my shoulders and neck. For a moment he pauses to keep both hands on my hips, shifting me to settle my body so that my knees distribute the weight more evenly, to place it more centrally and onto the locked joints of my bones.

After a few more adjustments, he’s satisfied with the snug restraint that binds me. My bottom perched up with my legs spread apart. I’m just thinking how nearly perfect this is when he tugs on the waistband of my panties. I was questioning the decision to leave them on when he began to bind me, but then I saw it as another form of restraint. Except now he’s pulling them down my hips, letting the spandex binding dig into my skin as it stretches to go just below my butt cheeks, trapped around my thighs. It feels more punitive, like the corporal punishment that requires the naughty girl pull down her undies and expose herself.

I feel so wonderfully debased. So utterly morally corrupt. He’s walking around me, letting me stew in anticipation that is the finesse of his technique. A few more circles of his pacing and I whine. Just a quiet whimper as my knees ache.

“Does Miss Siena want something?” he asks in that sadistic voice of calm.

I’m not sure how pathetic I can, or should be.

“I want…what Mr. Damian wants for me,” I reply like I’m speaking to my manager. I’m not groveling; I’m pandering.

He snickers quietly. “Then she should be patient. She should want Mr. Damian to watch how her beautiful body suffers for him.”

Oh god, he’s evil. So delightfully and sexually evil. I shouldn’t like this so much; the pain that unburied the pleasure I suspected would be more than the experiment I intended. But the pain doesn’t work with anyone else but him. Only Mr. Damian gives me exactly what I want. His teasing voice, his tormenting words. His hands gently brushing my spine, going over my ass, threatening to do more. There’s a visceral spasm in me when his hand slides down between my legs, sliding a finger across my slit. The finger slowly pulls away, dragging thru my wetness; then he’s still, not moving. Just as I relax, his hand swats my ass. Quick and sharp, just how I like it.