Unconventional Methods

Rachel Woe
12 mins read
Published 9 days ago
Chapter 1

Unconventional Methods

Figs. Oysters. Chili peppers. Of all the alleged aphrodisiacs, nothing makes me want to slide my hand between my thighs more than good old-fashioned anticipation. 

I check the clock again. 10:55 pm, the equivalent of 3:55 am London-time. Daniel’s time. He likes to joke that he’s Merry Olde England, and I’m new—as in New England. American. Peanut butter and Twinkies to his Marmite and spotted dick. 

Being a food blogger has a way of creeping into other corners of my life. To be fair, I am hungry. Ravenous, in fact. But not for cakes or condiments. My body reacts to the ping of the chat notification like a dog to a dinner bell. My mouth literally waters. I listen for the glide of my mother’s legs across the sheets in the next room, the restless flipping of covers. The prolonged silence tells me she’s fallen into the stupor offered by her sleeping pills. I plant myself in front of my laptop, wireless earbuds firmly in place. 

There’s only one word in the chat box: Ready? 

Arousal blooms low in my belly, soft petals unfurling. I type, Yes, Sir, and hit enter. 

The call bubble blips onto the center of my screen. I click to accept. Just like that, a window opens across the Atlantic. 

“Good evening, Sierra.” The skin around Daniel’s eyes crinkles as his mouth curves. His lips are thin and rosy, his face handsome if a bit worn-out. I can tell from the wall of books behind him that he’s calling from his study. 

“Good evening, Sir.” His smile warms my blood. “How was your day?”

“Busy,” he says. “I had an early conference call and then a meeting this afternoon with a prospective client.” He leans back in his chair, the silver handle of his walking cane propped against the armrest. As a soldier in the British Army, Daniel lost everything below his right knee to a landmine in Afghanistan six years ago. Now he alternates between a wheelchair and a prosthetic. “Do you have the package?” he asks.

I’d been checking the mailbox compulsively over the past week. When the heavy brown parcel finally arrived, I hurried it upstairs and stuffed it amongst the clutter beneath my bed where it couldn’t taunt me. 

I lift the box onto my lap for him to see. “May I open it?”

“Not just yet,” he says. “How’s your savory tart article coming along?”

Impatience is a fuse running up my spine, ignited by the grin playing on Daniel’s lips. He wants to draw this out and watch me squirm. “I still have to proofread it, but it should be ready to send in by next week.”

“Two weeks ahead of schedule.” His smile widens. “That’s my girl.”

Pride makes me buoyant. It’s taken almost a decade for me to reach a place where I’m remotely self-sufficient. After college, my social anxiety disorder ballooned into a cloud so thick and crippling, there was no feeling my way out of it. I couldn’t work, which meant I couldn’t afford rent, and had to move back in with my mother. I let all but a handful of friendships fall by the wayside. I couldn’t stand anyone knowing where I was living, what I wasn’t doing. I wanted to dress myself in wallpaper and fade into the background. 

Until a year ago, that is, when Daniel saw me. Not in person, of course. Born in Lancashire and raised in Wales, Daniel has never set foot in the States, and I’ve never stepped outside them. We met on a massive multiplayer online game, my only means of escape from the ever-present isolation, and Daniel’s retreat from the grief of losing not just a limb, but a calling. 

“I want to test the recipe for tomato-herb tartelettes one more time before I send it in,” I say. “Mom and I went to the farmer’s market this afternoon and picked out some local chevre, so I can try it with goat cheese instead of feta.”

“Sounds delicious,” he says, with that Welsh lilt that dissolves my insides like spun sugar on a warm tongue. “Saturday at the market must’ve been crowded. Were you all right?”

Not all disabilities are easily spotted with the naked eye, and some can only be measured in the jump of a pulse or a pattern of thought. Daniel has always been able to read me. I suppose that’s what makes him such an effective Dom. It's hard to explain the insidiousness of social anxiety to those who don’t have it. But I try, for Daniel, because he wants to understand.

There was a time in my life when I hadn’t been grocery shopping in years. When every moment spent in public made my heart pound and my hands sweat. Little things like ordering food at a restaurant felt like a final exam I was destined to fail. I tried to hide it, but under my skin, it was pure adrenaline. Fight-or-flight at the ice cream shop, where the line is long and the pressure is on so you pick the first thing on the menu, though it’s not what you want, and then you hate yourself almost as much as you hate butter-pecan. 

It was Daniel who encouraged me to try therapy and medication. Now, I can run to the store for bread when it’s just me and the overnight stock clerks. I can tag along on errands and trips to the library. I can’t ever see myself working a typical day job, but it’s important to me that I contribute, lift some of the burden off my mom. So, I blog and write articles for healthy eating websites, and take the occasional ghostwriting gig when it pays enough. I don’t mind letting others take credit for my words. Right now, they’re about all I have to give.

“I was tense at first,” I say, recalling the crowded market. “But I concentrated on my breathing, like Dr. Vargas showed me, and eventually it got better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiles, his gaze drifting about the screen. “That chemise looks lovely on you, by the way.”

I glance down at the pearlescent silk top and matching shorts. Gone are the tattered tees and flannel pajamas I used to wear to bed. I now have an entire chest of drawers dedicated to undergarments, delicately folded and arranged by color and type. I’ve imagined Daniel running his fingers over the impossibly smooth material before asking the salespeople to wrap each piece carefully for transport. My nipples tighten into points, and I know he can see them. The longing in his gaze is unmistakable. 

“Stand so I can look at you,” he says. I set the package on the desk and rise. The fabric caresses my skin as I move. “Turn for me.”

I pivot slowly, careful to keep my outfit within the webcam’s view. Every inch of me is an offering, every word from my mouth an homage. By the time I make it back around, he only has one hand on the desk in front of him. 

Tension gathers between my thighs. He smooths his closely cropped beard. 

“Now,” he says, “let me see those gorgeous nipples.” 

My breath catches. My clit throbs. I want to rub myself but he hasn’t ordered me to, and although we’re an ocean apart and my hands are still my own, I will have to wait because that’s what I’ve agreed to do. I slide the chemise’s delicate straps off my shoulders and draw the garment down below my breasts. 

Daniel pins his tongue between his teeth. “Touch them.”

I lift and knead my breasts. My nipples tingle as I flick them gently, drawing a line of pleasure from my breasts straight to my core. I close my eyes and imagine that my hands are Daniel’s. A soft moan floats from my mouth. 

“Pinch them,” he says. I squeeze my nipples and flinch at the jolt of pain. He leans toward his laptop screen. “Again. Harder.”

I obey, biting my lips together to stop myself from making noise. 

“God, that makes my cock ache,” he says, his eyes half-lidded. I smile. My pain turns him on, and knowing he’s rock-hard and happy turns me on. He sits back in his chair, both hands on the desk. “You may open your present now.”

Frustration and curiosity vie for space inside me. Curiosity wins. 

“Thank you, Sir.” I drop onto the chair and fetch my scissors from the top drawer. Once all the strips of packing tape have been cut, I count three heartbeats, then pull back the cardboard flaps. Inside, I find three more boxes of varying shapes and sizes, wrapped in red, blue, and pink tissue paper. 

I look up at the screen to find Daniel tipped back in his chair with a smirk on his face.

“The plot thickens.” He steeples his long fingers. “Open the blue one.”

I set the package on the floor and tease the box in question away from the others. Daniel’s sent me all kinds of gifts, but the anticipation never wanes. I lift the lid, and my eyes go wide. Packed tightly amongst more soft, blue tissue lies a black riding crop with a short fiberglass handle, a small bamboo paddle with the word mine etched into it, and a jar of jasmine-scented lotion.

“Well?” he says.

I touch the paddle, tracing the letters. “I love it. I love everything. Thank you, Sir.”

Daniel exhales, and I detect a hint of relief in his dark eyes and easy smile. He wets his mouth. “I want you naked. Now.”

I lay the box on the desk and slide my chair back, his words directing my limbs before my mind has time to catch up. I work the chemise over my head, then fold it carefully and drape it over the back of the chair. With my rear facing the webcam, I slide the shorts down over my hips and let them fall. 

Daniel’s hum reverberates through the wireless earbuds; I feel the vibrations of it in my bones. “Your ass is perfection,” he says. “I can’t wait to see it glow.”

Goosebumps prick across my skin. I lay the shorts over the chemise before turning to face Daniel, completely exposed. 

No one else has ever looked at me the way he does, with this blend of greed and total acceptance. Out in the world, I avoid drawing attention. Here, in front of my webcam, I’m the star of Daniel’s favorite show.

“Are you wet?” He asks what we both already know. “Show me. I want to see it on your fingers.”

My heart hammers a steady rhythm in my chest. I reach between my thighs and coat my fingers with slickness, marveling at my body’s response to this man who has never touched me. I present my hand to the camera, fingers sleek under the glow from the screen. 

This is what you do to me.

Daniel purrs, that deep baritone drone. His hand disappears below the desk again and I can tell by the movement of his elbow that he’s touching himself. More than anything, I want to watch him stroke his cock but it’s a privilege I’ll have to earn. My pain for his pleasure, because his pleasure is my pleasure.

If my pussy could talk, it would mewl.

“We’ll use the crop tonight,” he says. “Pick it up.”

I grasp the handle, impressed by the quality of the craftsmanship and the smoothness of the leather tongue. It’s lighter than I expect. I wonder how badly it will hurt.

“I want you to follow my instructions to the letter,” he says. “Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tap the tongue against your hand a few times.”

I slap the crop against my palm. “Ow.”

“Lighter. You have to prepare the skin.”

I tap the leather tongue across the plane of my palm.

“Good. Now with a bit more force.”

My hand prickles and flushes a bit more with each slap until the entire surface is tingling.

“Now hit hard.”

I smack the tongue against my hand. It hurts, but not as intensely as the first stroke. I sigh as the pain spreads and disperses like heat up my arm. He must read the excitement on my face because the next thing he says is, “Just wait until I make you beat your cunt.”

My eyes widen.

Daniel laughs. “Tomorrow. Now, turn around, Sierra.”

I rotate slowly.

“What you just did to your hand,” he says, “you’re going to do to your ass. Start by patting lightly to see how it feels.”

I angle my upper body so I can watch his reactions without compromising his view. Gripping the handle, I tap the leather square over my backside. My skin tingles, pins and needles, like when your foot falls asleep, only wonderful.

“Good. Keep doing that.” 

Daniel shifts in his chair. I hear the soft purr of a zipper being drawn. He’s going to stroke his cock while I hurt myself. He’s going to get off on my pain, just as I get off on doing whatever he tells me to. I pepper my ass with smacks and imagine what his hand is up to under the table. 

“Strike hard,” he says.

I squeeze the handle and bring down the tongue, gasping at the sting. 


I tap and then strike each cheek six times, each blow hurting more than the last. By the time I’m through, I have a burning, reddened ass and a very happy sadist on my screen. 

“Well done, my girl.” 

A smile pulls at my lips as the tension in my body fades to pride. “Thank you, Sir.” 

“You can put the crop down,” he says. “Use the lotion.”

I set the riding crop back in its box, pick up the lotion, unscrew the lid. I scoop out a good-sized dollop, distribute it evenly between my fingers, then spread it over my sensitive flesh. It cools and soothes. I sigh with pleasure. 

“Turn around, Sierra,” he says, and I do. 

He has rolled his chair back just enough so I can see his lap in its entirety. My clit throbs at the sight of his hand gliding over his cock, circling the head. 

I watch, entranced. 

“Touch yourself.”

My hand flies to my clitoris. We’ve done this for each other countless times, but it still thrills me, this exchange, this display of self-induced delight. Daniel watching me fuck myself, watching me touch myself as only I can, watching my face as I come. I start with one hand, but it’s never enough. I need both, so I can pretend my hands are Daniel’s hands, that the fingers circling my clit and thrusting into me are his fingers, that the fist around his cock belongs to me. I want to feel his skin on mine so badly it's like a ribbon wrapped around my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

All I can do is come.

I clamp a hand over my mouth as my orgasm shudders through me, bowling me over. Sharp as a knife and then dull. With my face close to the screen, I watch Daniel’s eyes close, his mouth fall open, his chest heave. 

Four quick jerks and a long stroke. Sometimes he remembers to grab a tissue, but not tonight. Tonight, there’s come on his fingers and shirt, and then on his pants as his hand drops to his thigh. I taste myself, longing to lick his fingers, to taste his come.

I am breathless. “Thank you, Sir.” 

He wipes his hand on his shirt. “And you, my girl.” 

We share a quiet moment, him slumped in his chair, me kneeling on the floor with my head cradled on the desk. 

Daniel temporarily disconnects while he cleans himself up. I take the opportunity to stow my gifts in the bottom drawer of my dresser, alongside the other toys he’s given me: dildos and butt plugs, blindfolds and nipple clamps, ball gags. I brush my teeth and wash my face, then take the two unopened presents and my laptop to bed with me.