Merry Leather Christmas

by Misti Love-Fitzpatrick

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© Copyright 2021 - Misti Love-Fitzpatrick - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; MF; fpov; denial; mast; sex; anal; armbinder; gag; blindfold; bond; clamps; collar; corset; cuffs; leash; nipple; party; boots; cane; climax; crop; leather; lingerie; spank; whip; rom; cons; XX

I was burned out. For the CEO of a mid-size corporation, that’s a problem. I knew it. My chief of staff, Malcolm, knew it. The other C-suite executives knew it. Even the Generation Z girl who brought me my espresso macchiato in the morning knew it. I struggled to make decisions, often was irritable and on occasion was downright rude.

“How long has it been since you took a vacation, Lauren?” Malcolm asked me.

He winced when I said five years. Malcolm had been my trusted aide for the last two. A 30-year-old Brit with a blend of financial acumen and killer instincts, Malcolm was protective of me. In return, I compensated him in the mid-six figures. When he suggested I take some time off, I didn’t dismiss it immediately, as I had with others over the years. Malcolm pointed out the holidays were looming. The workflow slowed. Didn’t I say a month ago that I owed my elderly parents a visit, he asked.

“And you could recharge your batteries,” he said with a hopeful air.

I said I’d think about it and Malcolm frowned. What I’d never told him was that I had embraced work to try to blunt the pain of my divorce. It had been five years since my husband, Richard, had filed the papers that ended our 23-year marriage. Our fights had erupted for a multitude of reasons, but boiled down to two; his jealousy that my business career had outstripped his (so true) and what he described as my lack of interest in sex as I aged (very false).

I had hoped we could rediscover the deep love from the early days of our relationship, but the end came suddenly. I tumbled into a steep canyon of loneliness. I became a workaholic in hope of finding my way into the light, but with mixed success. My company’s higher profits seemed to confirm my decision to put in 18-hour days, every day, except for Sundays. But the accumulated fatigue in recent months had rendered me ineffective. It wasn’t easy to take time off, however. The people at work weren’t aware of my solitude. My empty personal life was spent behind a heavy black velvet curtain.

A week after our conversation, I summoned Malcolm to my large corner office. “I just booked a flight to see my parents for a week. I haven’t decided what to do with week two,” I added. He smiled and rose from his chair to give me a fist-bump. I told him he would be the interim CEO in my absence.

“We’ll look forward to your return, Lauren. You deserve this time off,” Malcolm said.

I told my driver, Rob, that I was taking a vacation.

“You’re taking a what?”

“Very funny. I really need the time off. I’ve had a short fuse recently, yes?”

With a wink in the rear-view mirror, Rob replied “no comment.” He was more than my driver, of course. He was an informal adviser, an amateur therapist, and a broker of information. He knew what really was happening in my company. He quizzed me about my plans. I repeated what I had told Malcolm – week one, quality time with the parents; week two, no clue. I asked if he had any tips.

“Do you want solitude or company?”

He stumped me there. I said both.

“How about a train trip?”

I asked where he got that idea.

“Oh, I was listening to some Johnny Cash the other day,” Rob said, laughing. “Actually, if you get a bedroom in the sleeper car, you can have solitude and then in the passenger and dining car, you can socialize if you want to. My boyfriend and I love our train rides.”

I thanked him for the idea and we soon arrived at my residence, a suburban mansion on 40 acres rimmed by high stone walls. I had decided to put the property up for sale, given how hot the real estate market was. On this night, like the ones before it, I was alone with my thoughts as I packed my suitcase.

I was 54 years old, the mother of two grown children – a 24-year-old son and 20-year-old daughter who felt the divorce had nullified their childhood memories. I reminded them that their father had filed for divorce, but they blamed me nonetheless. My ex had portrayed me as a greedy, manipulative, icy bitch. It put me on the defensive. The weight of my children’s disapproval burdened me.

The next morning, as I waited for my flight in Newark, I googled “train rides.” The results sounded interesting, but I didn’t make a snap decision. Shortly before the flight boarded, Malcolm called to notify me that our stock price had plummeted, but it was unclear why. I said I’d head into the office, but he said there was no need. This had happened a few times in recent years and he told me he knew how to handle it. He was right. I thanked him for the heads-up.

My parents were both 85 years old and lived in a high-rise condominium in Toronto. They were relatively healthy, but had slowed down as can be expected. I’ve always enjoyed their company. But I was struggling to adjust to the absence of frenzied work. I had decided to keep my smartphone on in case of an emergency. I picked it up, told myself to put it down. Where was the stock price? I hid my phone between the cushions of the couch and lectured myself about the need to live in the moment.

My mother did a lot of cooking, a gift which I did not inherit but I was her trusted sous chef. On the final night of my stay, I booked a rail trip through the Canadian Rockies. My father and I watched the Maple Leafs on television, waiting for their inevitable defeat. It wasn’t easy to bid farewell the next day to my parents at Union Station.

It was late in the evening when the train pulled out of the station. I settled into my private cabin, a cosy bedroom with a large window. Slipping into white flannel pyjamas, I began to read “Notes from Underground” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, but I lapsed in and out of sleep. The book tumbled to the floor. I fished around in my suitcase for a romance novel I had bought at the station. It was a true “bodice ripper.” I laughed at the purple prose – adjectives, adverbs and metaphors creating a logjam on nearly every page. It was set in the American Civil War, with detailed descriptions of uniforms that only a military fetishist would appreciate.

The vortex of the sex scenes, however, pulled me in; they were artfully done and I slipped off my pajamas. I hadn’t masturbated for so long, like months, and I hadn’t packed my dildo. After some reluctance about being in a semi-public setting -- and an odd guilt about self-pleasuring which dated to my mother’s reproof when I was in high school -- I touched my breasts, playing with my nipples and lowering my hand to my sex. The train had picked up speed and I felt its rhythm for the first time as I reached a long, intense orgasm. The sun was rising when I awoke.

I enjoyed breakfast with an elderly couple from Quebec and it felt nice to speak French again, as I did in my childhood. I spent most of the day in the lounge, meeting fellow passengers. I had returned to Dostoyevsky when a handsome young man sat across from me, the last seat available at the table. He was tall and well-built, with short black hair; a beard and a moustache, and darkly lashed eyes.

As he sat down, I glanced at him and our eyes met briefly. He wore a dark blue suit, a white button-down shirt, a paisley tie in mauve, khakis and black leather shoes. He shook hands with me and introduced himself as Christopher. He said he lived in The Hague. I asked what brought him to Canada.

He said he was travelling on business. He worked at the International Court of Justice and regularly visited Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver. He asked about me and was interested when I said I was the CEO of a mid-size corporation, headquartered in New York City. Our conversation spilled over into lunch. I asked Christopher how he became interested in the law. He inquired about the origin of my business career. I traced my route in climbing the corporate ladder. Before excusing himself, he asked me if I would accompany him to the cocktail party the following night. I accepted the invitation.

As I got ready for the party, I examined my reflection in the mirror: pretty, with blue eyes, a short blonde bob hairstyle with a side part, relatively tall at 5’6” and possessing a trim build maintained by near-obsessive workouts. I had packed a black cocktail dress, my sole one, for the occasion. I never had worn it, since I always wore business suits. The hem of the cocktail dress was too long, below my knee; and the dress was too large and shapeless. I wasn’t in the best of moods when Christopher picked me up. He was dressed sharply, in a black tailored suit and a silver tie.

I couldn’t hide my sour expression.

“Something wrong, Lauren?”

“Oh, it’s this frumpy dress. I bought it a while back and I’ve never worn it. I hate it.”

“Lauren, you wear it well, if you don’t mind me saying,” he replied. I smiled and thanked him. As we made room for two conductors passing us in the corridor, I felt Christopher’s hand on the small of my back for a few seconds. Arriving at the party, Christopher fetched me a glass of cabernet sauvignon and we chatted for hours. We had similar tastes and much in common. I had hoped he would kiss me when we parted that night, but he didn’t. Then I thought, he barely knows me.

We spent most of the next two days together. We enjoyed the scenery as the train passed through snow-covered farmland. Our conversations were enjoyable. I enjoyed his charm and sincere flattery. After dinner, he said the train would be stopping the next morning so the passengers could shop in a small town elaborately decorated for Christmas.

“Is it a date?” he asked.

“Sounds lovely,” I said.

The morning was sunny and brisk. Five large buses took the train’s passengers to the small town that catered to high-end tourists who came for the skiing. There were dozens of shops, restaurants and coffee houses. With the temperature slightly below freezing, Christopher and I were bundled up as we window-shopped.

He asked if we could stop at a men’s clothing store to get some ties. Christopher asked for my advice and we picked out several ties and also some shirts. We stopped at a coffee house next door. I enjoyed the vibe of the crowded space and it put me in a reflective space. I had taken the train trip, in part, with the hope of meeting a man. I had trouble admitting this to myself, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. I thirsted for a gentleman and as we relaxed in the coffee house, I realized I wanted Christopher – if he would have me. I was attracted to his looks and his personality equally. I thought his approach was gentlemanly and easy.

Since my divorce, I had dated men my age or younger whose approach often was ham-handed. In most cases, the culprit was a lack of social skills. I’d often catch them admiring my jewellery, dollar signs reflecting in their eyes. Clumsy, a little clumsy, a wise female friend said after I recounted one young man’s advances. His name was Joshua and he thought, like most of the others, that there was a shortcut to my heart and down to my panties. He thought wrong.

But I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself. I had done the math and estimated Christopher’s age at 35 – not a huge gap but 19 years nonetheless.

We had about an hour left before our bus would return us to the train. Braving the sharp wind that whipped the boulevard, I pointed out a women’s clothing boutique to Christopher. We were looking at a rack of dresses when he excused himself to take a cell call. I spoke to a female clerk and told her that I needed a little black dress, to replace the frumpy one. “Stylish, classy and sexy – but not too sexy,” I told the clerk, giving her my dimensions. She returned with a cowl sequin mini dress.

“Perfect for parties,” the clerk declared and I agreed. When she asked if I needed anything else, I paused and said underwear. We walked over to a mannequin in a black Balconette bra made of satin and lace with wide set detailed straps, bikini-style panties with lace detailing and a sheer back, and a garter belt with lace details and six attachments to black silk stockings. The clerk suggested black pumps to match and I purchased a patent leather pair.

“Not what I usually wear, but hey, I’m on vacation,” I told the clerk, who gave me a thumbs-up.

When Christopher returned, I was leaving the register.

“Sorry about that call. Work is unrelenting. You’ve done some shopping,” he said.

“Yes, I got a new little black dress.” I didn’t tell him about the lingerie.

Outside the shop, Christmas carols were playing on a loudspeaker.

Strings of street lights, even stop lights blink a bright red and green.

As the shoppers rush home with their treasures.

Christopher was wearing black leather gloves and he held my red-gloved hand as we walked toward the bus. I was thrilled and felt my nipples harden at him making a move. It felt perfectly timed to me. When we returned to the train, he asked if I would model my new dress for him. I said I’d wear it to dinner.

It had begun to snow, large flakes drifting from the sky. Christopher had arrived for dinner a few minutes before me and had ordered a bottle of champagne.

“What are we celebrating?” I asked, arriving at the table for two.

“I was going to say your decision to take time off from work, but let’s add your new dress to the toast,” he said. “It’s fabulous.”

I loved the dress. It made me feel confident in a social setting. The hem wasn’t too short, just short enough to display my long legs encased in my new black silk stockings. It also was tight in the right places, accentuating my bust and toned ass.

“I had to practice walking in these heels. I usually wear flats.” I blushed, realizing that I had left the question unanswered why I was wearing five-inch stilettos.

Christopher smiled. “You’re stunning, Lauren Smith, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

I didn’t know that, not since the early halcyon days of my marriage. I knew my worth in the marketplace and knew my power could stun people who worked for me or were business competitors. But Lauren Smith, in the stylish dress with enough garters to make Dita Von Teese jealous? I didn’t feel like I knew that stunning woman.

I hadn’t expected Christopher to invite me into his cabin for a drink. After pouring two glasses of Irish whisky, he turned and kissed me lightly on the lips. I smiled after our first kiss, savoring the sensation. He cocked his head.

“It’s been a while,” I told him, explaining my smile. “I love your kiss.”

We kissed more like that, thoroughly, lightly and in no rush as a crescent moon lit the sky. Christopher slowly lowered the zipper in the back of my dress and kissed his way down my neck. I stepped out of my sheath. His lips returned to mine. I felt his large, smooth hands caress the sheer back of my black lace panties. He slipped them off gracefully.

My pulse quickened as he unhooked my bra, leaning down to kiss my breasts and nestle his head between them. He moved his right hand leisurely toward my pussy, heightening my anticipation as he moved from my blonde bush of pubic hair to my folds.

“God, Lauren, you’re so wet.”

“Because of you, Christopher.”

His fingers alternated between sliding in and out of me and moving closer to my clitoris. He teased and denied, turning my soft panting into sighs and moans. His handsome face -- his hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones – showed me his desire. He stared into my eyes as his fingers reached my clit. I moaned loudly and felt my body tremble as I came. My orgasm was so intense that I could barely stand. Christopher picked me up and set me on the bed, where we woke up the next morning to what looked like an emerging blizzard.

Was Christopher a dream?

I ran my fingers over his back. I knew he was awake. Like me, he had slept in the nude. As he scrolled through his emails on his smartphone, I admired his sexy butt. I like athletic men with big backsides.

“Was that a dream last night?”

“It was real, very real,” he responded. He got up to open the drapes, putting on a pair of black boxer briefs. I still had a great view of his body. I zeroed in on his muscular abs and the trail of hair from his navel to the band of his underwear.

“Do you play sports?” I asked.

“Yes, football, ice hockey and rugby. The snow is getting heavy.”

I wrapped myself in the sheets and looked out the window with him. There wasn’t much to see. The train was beginning to ascend into the Rockies. The wind had turned the conditions into a white-out. The forecast, Christopher said, was for snow the entire day.

“And are you going to spend your entire day in those sexy boxer briefs, hopefully?” I asked.

“Do you see something you like?”

“Yes, I want your cock.”

“Tell me more, Lauren.”

“I want to suck your cock.”

He pulled a chair into the middle of the room and told me to sit.

“I understand you want to reciprocate for last night, but you won’t be performing fellatio on me this morning.”

I asked why, pouting a bit. His eyes darkened as he looked at me.

“Have you ever been in a relationship with a dominant man?”

I said I had not.

“I didn’t think so. I’m attracted to you, Lauren, and you’re telling me you feel the same way about me. But I’m different from other men you know. Last night was a rarity for me, all sweetness and light. I’m a dominant male, have been for quite a while.”

“Like Christian Grey?”

He laughed. I had provided some levity. “You’ve done your reading, I see,” he said.

“If we have a relationship, it will be rooted in BDSM,” Christopher said, his voice matter-of-fact. “I want you to think about that for a few days. With this snow, you might even have more time.”

I didn’t know what to say. I put on my underwear, little black dress and pumps. When he suggested we get breakfast, I said I needed to change and would see him in half an hour. We kissed and I returned to my cabin.

Was I surprised by his revelation? Yes and no. There had been clues, but all of the evidence was circumstantial. I have known several attorneys and Christopher possessed that brand of self-confidence. But I felt more from Christopher. He was respectful of me and genuinely interested in my life and career. Our interactions, however, were tinged by his masculinity. He set the agenda. He guided our conversations. He knew when to hold my hand for the first time, when to tell me I was stunning, when to kiss me for the first time, and when to undress me and make me come.

I sent him a text.

<Do you want me to be yours, Christopher?>

It was impulsive. I felt a sharp wave of heat race through my body as I waited for his response. It didn’t come.

Christopher arrived at breakfast before me. He had ordered me a mug of cocoa with whipped cream. He leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

“I got your text. I do want you to be mine, but it’s more complex than that. This isn’t an erotic romance novel or a movie. It’s also not an excuse for me to flog an unsuspecting maiden for a wank. I want you to think about this deeply, before you make a decision, because once you do there’s really no turning back unless you want to lose me.”

I told him I understood. We didn’t need to whisper anymore.

“What are your plans today, Lauren?”

“I’d like to hang out with you. Enjoy some wine, have you read me the weather forecast, maybe play a board game.”

He smiled. The waiter took our order. When he left, Christopher told me he had some work to do.

“On Christmas Eve?” I was surprised.

“Yes. It can’t wait. I’d like you to be my guest at the Christmas Party tonight. Can you meet me at my cabin at 11?”

I mumbled maybe. I was angry and didn’t want to conceal it.

“I was looking forward to spending time with you, Christopher.”

“I know, but I can’t get out of this, Lauren.”

There was no apology. The rest of the breakfast went poorly, chunks of it spent in awkward silence. When it ended, I stormed off.

Fuck the Christmas Party. He can go alone.

I spent the day reading poetry and writing in my journal, angrily, taking out my frustration. That helped, but not much. I had lunch and dinner delivered to my cabin. I didn’t want to see him or anybody else.

A text arrived from Christopher.

<Looking forward to taking you to the Christmas Party>

I didn’t reply. An hour or so later, there was a knock on my door. Through the peephole, I could see it was Christopher. He wore a black suit with one of the red ties we had picked out in town. In his left hand, he held an item wrapped in plastic. I asked him through the door what he wanted.

“I want to apologize.”

“Try again in a few hours.”

He did. This time, I let him in.

“Lauren, I should have apologized earlier. I knew you wanted to spend time with me today and I should have been sensitive to that. Do you accept my apology?”

I hesitated. “It depends. What are you apologizing for?”

“For not making you the top priority today. I’m very sorry. Do you accept my regrets?”

I nodded. I was still angry, but his apology was sincere. He kissed me, hanging the item wrapped in plastic on the door knob.

“It’s your dress for the Christmas Party,” he said.

There were about 100 people at the party, stretching over more than one railcar. I knew there would be people surprised at my outfit. The party was a formal affair, with men in suits and women in dresses. Well, there were a few exceptions. One of them was an elderly woman from Chicago whom I had befriended. Mrs. Piggles looked at me askance when I walked into the dining room. My black leather dress was tight with a short mini-skirt hem, and it had taken Christopher half an hour to lace up the back. I wore my black silk stockings and my come-fuck-me pumps from the night before.

By contrast, Mrs. Piggles’ big reindeer sweater was, well, festive. Her sneakers, adorned with the image of Santa Claus, were super-comfy next to my high heels.

“I feel under-dressed,” Mrs. Piggles confided in me.

“I feel over-dressed,” I said, trying to reassure her. I added: “Between you and me, my boyfriend picked this outfit for me. I do love it, but it’s something new for me.”

“Pretty obvious who’s going to get fucked after the party,” Mrs. Piggles commented.

“Oh, you never know what Mr. Piggles has in store for you, do you?” She laughed with me.

If my interest in Christopher had been a secret from my fellow passengers, it no longer was. We held hands and there were other public displays of affection, including an extended kiss under the mistletoe. Christmas carols were sung and when the party ended, Christopher said he wanted me to spend the night with him. I told him I needed to get some things from my cabin. He told me I wouldn’t need clothes. When I returned, he undressed me and we cuddled and kissed until we fell into a long, peaceful sleep.

I woke up the next morning to Christopher wishing me a merry Christmas. He had picked up breakfast for us. I noticed the train wasn’t moving. “It snowed all night and the train is waiting for the tracks to be cleared,” he said. We were high up in the Rockies. The snow showed no signs of letting up.

I had followed Christopher’s advice and thought deeply about BDSM. I was honest with myself -- finally. There would be no cliches as I told him about my decision. I was starved for a man’s appreciation and attention. I wanted a man’s handsome looks and his great body – and what his cock could do to me. Christopher offered all of that. I wanted to give myself to him, without any conditions. This wasn’t about a businesswoman relinquishing control to a dominant after a long day, another transaction on the ledger. No, this was about me accepting what I had repressed for so long; that I not only wanted to submit to a man, but that I wanted the right one to possess me. I began to cry after I told Christopher all of this.

“It’s just a lot of emotions that never have come out. I believe you are the right man,” I told him. Christopher embraced me. “I am,” he said. “I’ll never betray your trust.”

I took a long, hot shower. He had left me a white satin robe, but it wasn’t on for long. Christopher undid the sash and slipped it off my shoulders. His fingers grazed my nipples and he then flicked them with his tongue. I chose a safe word, “red.” He told me I would address him as “Sir” and would be punished if I did not. I nodded.

“We’ll go slow. It will be a taster, since this is your first time.”

“Yes, yes Sir.”

“Keep your eyes forward at all times.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He placed the silver metal collar with a D-ring around my neck and attached the back. He told me he would hold the key. I squealed as he grasped my nipples and tugged them. Christopher dressed me entirely in black: a leather corset, matching panties, opera-length leather gloves, thigh-high black stockings and calf-high boots with a five-inch stiletto heel.

“I travel with various sizes for potential subs. Do these fit properly, Lauren?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

Attaching a silver leash to my collar, he moved me over to the floor-length mirror.

“I want you to see yourself, Lauren. Do you know how stunning you are?”

“I do, Sir.”

He tied a red satin blindfold around my head and placed a red ball gag in my mouth, attaching the black strap. I could hear him changing clothes, from the white dress shirt with the green tie, suit pants and Italian leather shoes to something I could not see. I later would discover it was black leather – a studded harness that accentuated his muscular, hairy chest; pants and motorcycle boots that tucked under his pants.

“Give yourself to me, Lauren.”

I moved closer to him and felt his arms around my waist.

“I’m going to use an armbinder on you,” he said, gathering my wrists behind my back and lacing the black leather restraint. I hadn’t been in a position like this before.

“You’re mine now, Lauren.”

I thanked my Sir.

The sensory deprivation also was new to me. I couldn’t see him, didn’t know where he was unless he was close to me. I knew, from his instructions, that I could not speak unless responding to him. Was he admiring me? Was he putting everything in position for my bondage and domination? I heard him close the drapes. He checked to see if my ball gag was still in position. I could smell him, the scent of his testosterone, his leather, the musky smell of his hot body. I felt him lower my leather panties.

I had wondered how people in the adjacent cabins would not hear us. I soon had my answer. Music by Nine Inch Nails flooded the small room and Christopher spanked me for the first time. It was his hand, but he switched to what felt like a paddle. He spanked me on each ass cheek. I tried to not make a sound, but I began to whimper as he continued to blanket my ass with soft and progressively harder blows. I soon realized that Christopher didn’t intend to spank me a few times and move on. As the pain increased, I felt my body buckle, tottering slightly atop the boot heels.

“Are you OK, Lauren?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Have you ever been spanked?”

“Not since my father spanked me when I misbehaved as a child, Sir.”

“We’ll discuss that later, Lauren.”

Besides this being my first BDSM experience, I never had encountered pain. I didn’t know my tolerance, but was eager to find out. As Christopher used the paddle to spank me, I felt a slight numbness and heat from my ass, which I presumed was turning pink from the repeated blows. The pain was pleasure to me. I was happily surprised by the sensation.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes, Sir. I need more.”

Christopher stopped and turned off the music. He positioned me on my stomach on what felt like a bench that he apparently set up in the center of the cabin.

“I brought my favorite riding crop with me.”

The music resumed. He popped the crop playfully on my ass. He used it to prepare me for his whip. I felt its bite. The pain shot through my body and intensified with each blow. The sound of my scream was muffled, the ball gag now covered in saliva. I didn’t know when he would stop. I didn’t want him to stop.

I knew the whip marked me and I loved how it sounded and felt. I wanted more; not just the pink blossoming on my ass, but a shade darker. I also wanted his hand and as if he read my mind, Christopher began to spank me again, his palm firm and fingers digging gently into my ass between his strikes. I wanted him to fuck me, but I knew I didn’t deserve that yet.

“Does that feel good, Lauren?” I nodded. He continued with the whip. I felt my body move forward. Christopher pulled me back so I was properly positioned on the bench. I felt him place cuffs around my boots at the ankles and connected them with what I later learned was a silver chain.

He extended the whipping to my back, to the spots around the armbinder. He grasped the hair on the back of my head and slapped my pussy several times. Wetting his finger, he began to work on my asshole, one finger at first. He spit on the tight channel and alternated his touch between my back door and my pussy, which was soaked and throbbing.

Like the ball gag, the cane surprised me. He used it sparingly, on the sides of my ass and the spot a few inches above my anus. He placed his left hand on the small of my back as he caned me, his breathing growing heavier as I moved my hips in response.

It was no mystery where he was going first and after methodically lubing my entry point with his fingers, Christopher moved his cockhead close to my back door and then entered. Even with the lube, which he also had applied to his cock, I felt a sharp wave of pain up my back as he began to pump his cock into my ass. He began slowly, but picked up the speed as I adjusted to his length and girth. He fucked me hard and then stopped.

Unlacing the armbinder, he removed my blindfold. He unlaced my corset, took it off and turned my body so I faced him, my back resting on the bench. He placed black leather cuffs around my wrists and attached them to my ankle ones. He returned to his whip, using it on my stomach and my breasts, now adorned with silver nipple clamps. The clamps turned up the volume of my animalistic screams.

As he penetrated my pussy, he used a vibrating wand on my clit, and then alternated between fucking my pussy and ass. He dominated me this way, stopping and starting, for almost an hour until he removed the ball gag and told me I could come if I asked for his permission. He filled my vagina with his semen as we came together.

The train was stranded in a blizzard that I hoped would never end. That night, as we snuggled and French-kissed in bed following my aftercare, I taught Christopher the lyrics to one of my favorite Christmas songs, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

“Ah, you’re very pushy you know?” I sang.

“I like to think of it as opportunistic,” he replied, with perfect pitch.

Christmas Day was not our final bondage session. We had several more before the train pulled into Vancouver, the snow finally relenting. When I returned to New York City and Christopher to The Hague, we began a long-term relationship. I’ve seen him in person at least once a month, often two, and we talk by video several times a week. We’ve booked another train ride through the Rockies. We’ll have a merry leather Christmas and there may be wedding bells in Toronto. I’ve fallen in love with my Sir, who possesses and loves me.


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