Gromet's Plaza
The Art of Silk Surrender
by Dannyinsilk | Forum Feedback
© Copyright 2009 - Dannyinsilk - Used by permission
Storycodes: FM; silk; clothing; store; F/mf; bond; cuffs; rack; bdsm; display; cons; X
The Art of Silk Surrender 6 by Dannyinsilk FM; silk; clothing; store; F/mf; bond; cuffs; rack; bdsm; display; cons; X
continued from part five

The Art of Silk Surrender- Part 6

When I slept that Sunday night, loosely bound and blindfolded in my parents’ bed after having spent the entire day exploring my role as my friend Sue’s sexual slave-prisoner, my dreams were less erotically urgent, but oddly muddled, far less serene than I had been used to.

I had at last, of course, been finally granted the chance to experience several orgasms while in bondage, and that was simply exhilarating.  But, it was also the first time I had been bound and revealed as a submissive in a situation that did not include and was not controlled by my Joanna, my guide and First Mistress.  There was no class, there were no students, I was not serving a higher mission; I was serving Sue and only Sue.  Her needs, her whims, her desires, including the desire to help me explore my own needs and pleasures, were the be all and end all of my existence from early that morning until well into the evening, when she finally released me from her thrall, and tucked me in with a couple of scarves handy to do my personal sleep ties that I had found so enticing.

And of course, it was not just Sue.  The whole gang at my party had borne witness to the excitement I displayed at the thought of being publicly bound and blindfolded.  And, they had all indicated that they would very much like to reconvene for another nude bondage pool party again next weekend, seeing that my parents would still be away, and we could perhaps take things even further.  The thought of it both excited me and worried me.  I was sure it would not be long before word got around about all the new things in my life, and I really began to wonder if some things were better off kept within a certain level of intimate friendship.  Oh, well, I thought, at least they hadn’t seen me in my mother’s silken nightgown.  Just a hint of that getting out made me flush all over with deep embarrassment.

I awoke Monday morning, and mulled over all these things as I toyed with a light breakfast in the kitchen, having slipped into the nightgown once again despite my reservations about doing so.  At last, I got dressed for my day in my regular clothes, and returned the gown, the scarves and the dressing robe to my mother’s closet and drawer, and went out.  Drifting through the day, I finally came out of my hazy daydreams to find myself at the local shopping mall nearing the dinner hour.  My feet were taking me somewhere all on their own, and I blanched as I found myself walking right into the designer lingerie store I had always been scared and intrigued by.  Today, my new path was leading me to confront myself and embrace my desires, whatever they might be.

Fortunately, I suppose, I seemed to be the only “customer” in the shop.  I tried to slide over to one side and take in the layout of the racks of silky, lacy frills, but, of course, the shop girl saw me at once and bounced brightly over to attend to me. 

“Can I help you find something, Sir?” she offered pleasantly.  I hemmed and hawed a moment, shuffled my feet like a five year old, then finally, the words just popped out of my mouth like a sneeze.

“I’m looking for some satin sleepwear.  You know, a nightgown.  That sort of thing.”

“Sure.  Do you know your girlfriend’s size?”

I thought I could lie.  I thought I could convey to the pretty young clerk gazing up at me eagerly that my nerves were merely the natural embarrassment of a regular guy in a store full of ladies’ underwear.  But, as I continued to discover through all my new trials and tests, my will was simply not my own.  I exhaled all the tension from my body, and confessed.

“Actually, it’s for me.  I’m not a transvestite; I don’t want to dress up like a woman, but I love silk satin robes.  The way the fabric drapes across my body.  If they made them for men, I suppose I’d be shopping there, but . . . well, it’s just . . . for me.”

I guess it was the plain sincerity of my outburst, but the young lady just smiled warmly at me, full of complete sympathy and understanding.  She held out her hand and clasped my fingers reassuringly.  “I’m Tracy.” 

“Danny,” I responded softly. 

“Well, Danny.  It’s nice to meet you.  Why don’t you let me take you back over here?  I think I know just what you’ll enjoy.”

She led me to a rear corner of the store, and let go of my hand as she began to wrap a tape measure around me quickly and professionally.  She mused at my body for a moment, then began shuffling through a rack of the softest, most luxurious silk garments I had ever seen.  Just the scent of the fabric all around me was utterly intoxicating.  She began to pull things out and hold them up to me, and proceeded to assemble a collection of possible purchases she found appropriate.  I stood there in silent wonder and let her do her job with ease, grace and a complete lack of judgment against me.  After some moments of this, Tracy seemed satisfied, grabbed the pile of satin and took my hand again, leading me back to the change room area.  As I finally realized she was actually expecting me to strip down and model them for her approval, I turned all sorts of red, but couldn’t find a way to back down.  The opportunity was simply too captivating.

Suffice it to say, we spent the better part of half an hour with me in and out of some of the most divine gowns and robes I could possibly imagine.  The rest of the time, I was dancing back into the change booth to switch to the next outfit.  Totally professional, she gave me the privacy to slip in and out of the gowns all on my own, and was utterly unfazed at the fact that underneath the thin, gossamer fabrics, I was completely naked.

By the time we were done, we had agreed on three gowns and two robes that were absolutely perfect.  She added in three beautiful silk satin camisoles as a free bonus for my purchase, and sincerely asked me if I wanted to wear one of them home under my shirt.  I mused that people would know, and I would die, but she had me try it with a lovely, buttery silk dark blue cami under my medium blue shirt, and proved to me that you had to give me a shoulder massage to figure out that my undershirt had spaghetti straps, and wasn’t simply a man’s singlet.  She wrapped everything up in soft tissue paper, then slipped it all into a plain, unmarked shopping bag, so I could leave the store without feeling too nervous.  I let her run my card, and she gave me a big, encouraging embrace, making the silk slide against my skin and my shirt slip guiltily over top.  Then she wrote her phone number on her card and pressed it into my hand with a warm smile. 

“For if you want to come back . . . or for . . .  whatever.”  I thanked her, finally relaxing into my excitement over my new wardrobe, and stood much straighter and taller as I walked back out into the mall.  I felt the fabric of my camisole caressing my nipples and skin, and my breath deepened and I found myself smiling at people pleasantly as I left the mall, hoping they could find a path as easily to something so simple that could make them as happy as I was in that moment.  That evening, that night, I had my own nightgown, my own robe to lounge in, to sleep in, and it was simply wonderful.

Then it was Tuesday.  I found myself heading for the art studio, full of an odd mixture of the joy of submitting to Joanna’s energy once more, but also with a bit of nervousness and a hint of guilt over my independent adventures.  I knew I was being silly, that she was not my lover, and that I certainly had not been in any way unfaithful to her . . . and yet, I was concerned.  It was not until I had the studio door in sight that I realized that I was again wearing the blue silk camisole under my shirt, and I flushed with the knowledge that she would know.  Even though I always changed in private, Joanna would KNOW.  What would she do to me?  Would she insist I not cover it up with my shirt on the way home?  I had modeled it for myself the previous night, with (and without) my jeans on, and I thought I looked actually good with it as my only top - but to go out in public that way . . . was I ready for such a step?  My wobbly knees told me, NO.

As I entered the outer studio, Joanna was right there.  She was wearing, as usual, all silk satin, and her perfume once again enthralled me like a siren’s song.  She smiled warmly, gave just the slightest tilt to her head surely discovering my secret, then grabbed my hand energetically and led me into the main room.

Again, the layout was totally new.  I saw, off to the right of the modeling area, a platform draped in dark blue satin that seemed to be covering the tall, padded post I had been tied to in my first class.  To the left of this, there was what seemed to be a long, sturdy table at least twelve feet long, also draped with more blue satin.  As I tried to envision what lay ahead, she pushed me happily in my lower back toward the dressing room.

“Come on, silly boy.  We haven’t got all day for your hazy daydreams.”  I felt my shirt slip against the silk underneath it as she pressed her hands into me, and I was sure she felt it too.  Without turning to face her, I bustled over and secluded myself in the change room.  Slipping quickly out of my shirt, I looked at myself again in the mirror, with the blue silk held to my body by the flimsiest of delicate straps, and I smiled in spite of myself.  I made a point to remove everything else first, letting me savor the sensation of the cute little top as long as possible.  I stood up and gazed at myself once more, now wearing just the cami, and I smoothed it down against my naked skin, letting the bottom hem of the fabric brush and tickle against the tops of my thighs and my rising cock.

At last, I slipped out of the top, and, in a sudden flash of shame, tucked the bit of silk inside my other clothes, then realized Joanna had again not hung the robe out for me to put on.  As naked as the day I was born, I entered the studio and moved over to receive my instructions.

Joanna, again, moved to meet me, took my hand and led me to the edge of the long covered table.  “Ready?” she asked proudly.  I simply nodded, and my penis bobbed its agreement.  “Thanks, both of you,” she giggled.  With a dramatic flourish, she swept the satin cover away, revealing . . . what?  It took me a long moment to realize what it was.

“The Rack,” she confirmed enthusiastically.  And it was.  Not a medieval, splintery slatted old wooden one, but something Ikea might sell if they were to make torture devices.  All smooth, glossy surfaces, there was a slotted receptor for the victim’s feet at one end, the cutouts all coated with fine padding and covered with the ubiquitous silk satin.  I mused that the victim was being pampered at the same time they were being tortured, and I realized that my entire relationship with Joanna consisted of exactly that same bizarre balance.

At the other end, there was a pole about two feet long, with satin covered, padded cuffs at each end for the victim’s wrists – again comfort, pampering and peril in the same device.  The pole was attached in two places to heavy cord that stretched to the wheel at the very end, which would be the way the victim - ME, I finally admitted to myself - would be stretched out tighter and tighter.  Gazing into the bed of the device, I found it also seemed to be padded, and was covered with more of the fine silk material.  Oh, the joy, and, oh, the . . . what? 

I did a simple calculation in my head, and realized, even with my height and longer than usual arms, there was absolutely enough extra length in the bed of the contraption to create the . . . . ahem, the desired effect. 

Without further ceremony, Joanna patted the bed of the rack, and spoke.  “Come, come.  Up you go.”  I sat down on the edge, swung my legs up, and laid myself flat down on the soft silk, which was indeed comfortably padded beneath me.  Joanna, with her incredible balance of firm yet sensitive strength, grabbed my ankles and guided them into the designated slots, after having raised up the top portion to accept my approaching limbs.  I felt my ankles nestle comfortably into the slots, and raised my chin up in time to see Joanna lower the top again, trapping my feet very snugly.  She made a small ceremony of closing the latch and slipping a tiny golden padlock into place, to let me know that she, and only she, was in charge of my eventual release.  

This was a very different experience than all my previous bondage.  I was not tied.  I was locked in.  As I settled back down, I tried to digest how more vulnerable this made me feel.  With the scarves, the back of your brain keeps telling you, if you can just get the right approach at the knots, you can still find a way to free yourself.  In fact, this is usually nonsense, but your brain keeps that seed of hope anyway.  With the locks, however, you are trapped.  You need the key, and you don’t have the key.  You are trapped.

She moved above my head, and drew my arms up toward the waiting cuffs.  I couldn’t see, but I felt the latching and locking of the cuffs, one at a time, as my helplessness became complete.  I tested my bonds, and found that I was feeling indeed very pampered in my silk padded prison, but I knew there was more, so much more still ahead.

As if to confirm this, Joanna moved to the handle of the wheel, and cranked it a few notches.  I felt my arms tighten above my head on the rack bed as I lay there, nude and helpless, as every millimeter of slack was taken from me.  I was not yet in any pain, but much more stretching and I knew it was ever so close.  All I could do was rock my hips slightly from side to side.  As if in response to this unauthorized freedom, Joanna moved to my waist, and swung a curved, silk padded bar from the far side over and across my waist, and latched and locked it down firmly.  It fit perfectly across my abdomen, and I was held utterly motionless.  I could barely move my head as my shoulders were pressed against my ears quite insistently. 

Joanna moved directly over my face, and she smiled down at me, surely aware of her silken, blonde tresses wafting and caressing across my naked skin as she did so.  “Time to gag you, Sweet One.”  I opened my mouth, and she packed, then wrapped me up firmly, and it was the first sensation that I found familiar.  This was the exact same efficient silencing of me she had done since the very beginning.  I awaited my blindfold.

Instead of bringing it, however, Joanna asked me to look up and watch her.  “I have something very new and very exciting to add to this evening’s class.  I’m sure you’ll be very, very pleased.  Look closely, my Dear.”

I craned my head up to watch her approach the draped post on the other platform, and when she drew back the wave of blue satin, I froze and turned beet red all at once in total shock.  What I had assumed to be the post was definitely there, just as I had remembered and experienced being strapped to it.  But, I had assumed it was just the post.  I had absolutely no idea that there would be another person strapped to it, just as I had been!

It was a woman.  Not just any woman, not just any naked woman.  It was the most stunningly beautiful naked woman I had ever seen in my life.  She was tall; her skin was so silky smooth I could almost feel it from where I lay.  Her body was thin and fit, but even stretched and bound as she was, her lush, womanly curves were unmistakable.  She was bound with satin belts just as I had been, wrists together behind, feet lashed, strapped in at knees, thighs, waist, and above and below her proud, absolutely perfect breasts.  And she was gagged, I presumed packed in silence, and with a luscious over-the-mouth finishing scarf.  But, like me this instant, she was not blindfolded.  She had been tied in well before I could possibly have arrived, and I just knew Joanna was savoring this moment of shocking discovery that I was feeling. 

As the woman’s vision adjusted to the sudden, bright lights of the studio after having been under the draped cover for what may well have been hours, she began to look around, and almost immediately saw me staring at her from my own helplessly bound and naked state.  Our gazes locked, and we both felt a chemical connection with each other that literally sent shivers through our helplessly naked bodies at the same exact instant.  We almost melted into each other over the distance of perhaps fifteen feet that separated us.  It was as if I could feel her very breath moving in and out of my own lungs, her heart pumping blood through my own body.  Her eyes, deep almond orbs of light, indicated she had much Oriental heritage, but there was something Occidental about her aura as well.  She turned her head a few degrees to get a better look at my situation, and I saw that her hair was a dark, rich, satin wave of heavenly bliss that flowed straight and pure down her back to caress the cheeks of her firm, muscular ass. 

Joanna let us commune with each other for an indescribable, timeless transcendence, then finally stepped in to do her work.  “Daniel, this is Aurora.  Aurora, this . . . is Daniel.”

Aurora.  Perfect.  It was all absolutely, utterly perfect.  Aurora.  Aurora.  Her name would be my mantra; her soul would be my salvation.  Aurora.

Joanna continued.  “I told you both to trust me.  I believe you now see that trust was not misguided.  It is time to move to the next stage of the program.  Two models.  Lovers.  Soul mates.  Partners in passion, partners in peril.  The artists can move beyond simple shapes, primal sensations to embrace drama, story, dynamics, tension and release.  I have not blindfolded you yet, as I wanted you to know of each other.  It was destined that you would meet in this way, naked, pure, helpless, utterly surrendering to the will of something higher than your selves.  As we move forward from this moment, you will not be one.  You will be two.  You will share all, and your essences will be shared by us all.  And now, it is time.”

She moved first to Aurora - Aurora! - and applied her blindfold.  We were allowed one final moment of communion, and Aurora gave me the warmest smile through her eyes that I could ever have imagined.  And then, as darkness enveloped her world, she settled in against the padded post that held her fast, and awaited what was to come.

Joanna moved to me, and repeated the blindfolding, but only after kissing the tip of her index finger and planting it sweetly on the tip of my nose.  I settled in to my own darkness, much exactly as my female counterpart had done seconds before, and we knew we were ready to proceed.  As if to underline this, I felt Joanna move past my head to the wheel, and she turned it again.  My whole body seized up as I felt the true power of the device which held me as its helpless victim.  For victim I was.  Without hope of escape.

There was pain.  It radiated down from my wrists and exploded in my shoulders as my joints began to scream against the shocking torment.  I moaned hard into my gag, but my pain was muffled completely.  Instantly, a sheen of sweat broke out over every inch of my exposed skin.  I tried hard to breathe my way through it, and was still adjusting to the flooding sensations when I felt the satin cover being draped across me, as if to punctuate my suffering with the knowledge that it was mine and only mine.

And yet, there was Aurora.  Aurora.  My mantra, my angel, my heart.  And we were ready for the work to begin. 

And, it began.

continues in part seven



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03.02.10 | updated - 06.05.17


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