Unconventional Methods

Rachel Woe
15 mins read
Published about 1 year ago
Chapter 2

Unconventional Methods (Part 2)

When Daniel calls back, he’s seated in his wheelchair, shirtless and smiling. “How’s your ass, darling?”

“Sore,” I say, the side of my face pressed to the pillow. 

“You did beautifully tonight,” he says. “Would you like to open another gift?”

“Yes, please.”

“Open the red one,” he says.

I sit up and wrap the sheet around my hips, leaving my breasts exposed. Daniel sighs, a crackle of white noise. 

“Remind me to have you rub that lotion all over your tits tomorrow.”

My lip catches between my teeth. “I’ll make a note of it.”

Gingerly, I take the small red package into my lap and peel back the paper. Raising the lid, I cover my mouth to stifle a squeal at the sight of the vibrating bullet and remote control. 

“My girl is pleased.” 

“She is. Very.” I examine the bullet, shiny and black and heavy, but not cumbersome. The thought of pressing it to my clit makes me want to rub my thighs together. “This would fit perfectly in the front pocket of that black thong you sent me last month.”

“I know.” He grins. “It’s wireless. The batteries are already in place. All you have to do is push the power button on the remote.”

Excitement trills up my spine. “Can I try it out?”

“Not tonight. I have an assignment for you.”

“Oh?” I love when he gives me homework; it makes me feel productive. 

“Tomorrow,” he says, “when you wake up, you will unwrap the last package. Then, after your shower, you’ll put on the thong and slip the bullet into the front pocket, like you suggested. You’ll get dressed and then store the remote control in your pocket or purse. At eleven o’clock your time, you will walk to a public location of your choosing, where you’ll find a secluded place to sit. You’ll position your phone to record you, switch on the vibrator, and remain there for at least half an hour, or until you come.” 

The shiver that slinks along my spine is both hot and cold, thrilling and terrifying, arousing in every sense of the word. Fear wraps its spindly fingers around my throat. “Oh.”

Daniel waits, saying nothing. His gaze is kind, yet resolute. He knows what he’s asking would’ve been impossible a year ago. Even if I’d managed to psych myself up enough to leave the house—either by sheer force of will or with the help of benzodiazepines—my mind would’ve been racing. I'd have been sweaty and short of breath, counting down the minutes until I could run home. It would’ve been torture. 

Even now, I feel the echoes of that panic in my body, in the way my teeth gnash and my shoulders hunch. I stare at the vibrator in my palm. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”

“I think you are.” He states this matter-of-factly, as though it’s already true and not a means to convince me. The bullet feels heavier the longer I hold it. 

“Sierra?”

I look at the screen. 

“You liked the public sex videos I linked you last month.”

He’s right. I did like them. Videos of women being groped on trains, fucked in cars, fondled on buses. I came fast and hard while watching them, as did Daniel, who was watching me. I nod, though he hadn’t phrased it as a question. 

“Part of you wants to do this,” he says. 

Yes, a part of me does. But there will always be another part that has to be dragged kicking and screaming to do the things that should be fun. The trouble is determining whether my resistance stems from anxiety or genuine aversion. 

Eels swim circles around my gut. If I close my eyes and picture myself sneaking an orgasm in public, at the library perhaps, I feel panicked. If I imagine Daniel there with me, with his hand up my skirt and my face pressed to the stacks, I feel... stirred up. Nervous, but in a good way. The kind of nervous you’re supposed to feel when you know you might get caught.  

“I don’t want to do it alone.”

Daniel taps a finger on the desk, his expression thoughtful. “Sierra, when I instruct you not to touch yourself for days at a time, what stops you from disregarding my orders and telling me otherwise?”

I consider the question. “I made a promise to serve you. If I didn’t do what you asked, what would be the point?” 

“Does the fact that I’m not there to enforce my rules give them less weight?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Because to you, my words are an extension of my will. When I tell you to paint your ass red, it’s me who’s holding the crop. When I tell you to go somewhere, it’s as though I’m taking you there myself. As long as you are mine, I am with you. Your hands are mine. Your cunt is mine. Your will is mine. You are never alone.” 

His words wash over me, caressing my skin in all the ways his hands cannot. “What happens if I fail?” 

“If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. All I ask is that you try. We are still working toward bringing you here, are we not?” 

When Daniel and I started playing together, he referred to himself as a goal-oriented Dom. As we became more serious, I began entertaining fantasies of visiting him in London. I wanted the chance to really serve him, in ways both mundane and sexual, a chance to make his life a little easier and a lot more pleasurable. 

I’ve come a long way since those early days of dreaming, and Daniel has been there for me through it all. But in order to make the leap from dream to reality, I will have to reenter the world. No matter how much it scares me.

“Yes,” I say, “we are.”

“Then this is how we make that happen. It’s the same as teaching you to use the crop, except instead of preparing your skin, we’re preparing your mind. Once you're on a plane, there’s no turning back and nowhere to hide. Well, I suppose you could hide in the loo, but eventually someone’s going to knock on the door. Anyway, all this, the crop and the bullet and the wanking in public, it’s about desensitizing you to your own discomfort. Does that make sense?”

It does. Though I can’t look at his face when I tell him, “Yes, Sir.” 

“I want you to email me the video as soon as you get home tomorrow,” he says. “Now, give us a kiss. It’s getting late.”

He means late for me, although it’s nearly 5am where he is. As a self-employed consulting engineer, Daniel’s work schedule is flexible, which allows us to arrange our dates around my availability. I press my lips to the tips of my fingers, then reach out and touch the camera. He taps a return kiss, then pulls a book from the shelf behind him. 

I lay aside my presents and settle in for bedtime stories. Last night, we finished Wuthering Heights for the second time. Tonight, we begin of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty by A.N. Roquelaure—one of Anne Rice’s pseudonyms. It’s a favorite of mine, though Daniel’s hardcover looks a great deal older than my dog-eared paperback. 

He reads to me until the first rays of a London sunrise slant across his chest, until I can barely keep my eyes open. He marks the page we’re on, yawns, then smiles. 

“I love you, my girl. Someday soon, I’ll cuff you to my bed and show you just how much.” 

My chest clenches, a bittersweet ache. “I’d like that, Sir. I love you, too.” 


I wake with a commotion in my ribcage and Daniel’s words ringing in my ears. His final present to me, a long, squat box wrapped in pink paper, waits on my nightstand. I rest my hand between my breasts, heart punching at my sternum like it wants to fight. Today will be a fight, I think. A battle of wills: me against myself.

Breathing deeply, I push up and take the present into my lap. I stare at the pink paper, telling myself to just get on with it. But if history is any indication, things rarely get easier when I rip off the bandage. For me, there is no going with the flow. It’s been months since my last panic attack, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune. If today goes wrong, I could backslide. 

But Daniel wouldn’t have instructed me to do this if he didn’t think I could. I trust him. I trust the lens through which he views me, and I owe it to myself to try and make his fantasy come true. Not just because Daniel wants to see it happen, but because I do, too.

Carefully, I peel away the paper to reveal, not a box, but a book. A hardcover copy of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, the same edition as the one from Daniel’s collection. I check the title page: a signed first edition. Tucked into the seam is a handwritten note:

Something to help keep your mind on the task at hand.

Know that I am with you every step of the way. You can do this.

I love you.

Heat blossoms inside my ribcage and between my thighs. I run my fingers over the smooth dust jacket and coarse dry pages, so ripe with gratitude, I could burst.

Glancing at my phone, I note the time I’ve spent in bed. If I’m going to do this, I need to get a move on. 

Daniel didn’t specify a venue, just that it be private enough to avoid unwanted attention. The library would be my first choice, for its secluded nooks and crannies, but I go there often enough with my mother that someone might recognize me, and besides, they often host school field trips in the mornings. I could combine the assignment with breakfast, giving myself an excuse to be out and about. If I shower quickly and take the bus downtown, I can park myself in one of the back booths at Dooar, a small Indian teashop with soft music and dark corners. 

I shower and dress, starting with the black thong panties. Stretching the waistband outward, I slip the bullet into the front pocket, and make sure it’s positioned directly over my clit. Even that slight bit of pressure is enough to excite me. I flush. As for the rest of my outfit, I opt for a simple white blouse and loose brown skirt, brown suede purse. Nothing flashy. 

My mother asks, “What’s the rush?” as I dash through the living room and step into my shoes. I grab my keys and mumble something about research for an article. My pulse hastens with every step, but I do my best to ignore it. I am halfway out the door when I realize I’ve forgotten the remote and the book. I retrieve both, then pause to perform a quick breathing exercise in the stairwell before hurrying down three flights and along one sun-kissed block to catch the bus.

For all that I hate about public transportation, one thing I can count on is strangers’ reluctance to make eye contact or small talk. I clutch the book to my chest and watch the world pass by outside the window. It occurs to me that Daniel has touched this novel, skimmed through it, wrapped it in paper and mailed it. I envy the volume for knowing things that I don’t. I lift it to my nose in the hopes of detecting some trace of his hands, but it only smells like paper. 

The bus screeches and puffs to a stop. I drop down onto the street and make my way to Dooar, grateful for the fact that it’s not a weekend in my tourist-friendly town. These are the hurdles I schedule my life around: rush hour, packed cinemas, crowded restaurants. 

A draft of honey and cardamom wafts toward me as I slip inside the blissfully empty teashop. The barista has to ask me to repeat my order twice, and my hands are shaking by the time I’m settled into a back booth, facing the wall. I keep my purse close so I can reach the remote hidden inside. After a quick thank-you nod to the barista bearing my masala chai, I prop my phone against the glass mason jar holding an unlit candle, and hit record.

I glance around to ensure no one is watching, then close my eyes. I inhale, wrapping my fingers around the remote control in my purse. I exhale, and press the power button.

The bullet quivers to life, silent but powerful. 

My thighs snap together. The vibrations are too strong, overwhelming. I fiddle with the buttons, and the pulsing abates. I let my legs relax.

With the speed set at a bare tickle, I begin counting the minutes until I can leave. Daniel said I only needed to stay half an hour. With my heart already jackknifing and my thoughts running laps around my head, there’s no way I can relax enough to orgasm. 

I sip my tea, too hot, but delicious. I gently strum my fingers against the book cover. A silver-haired woman in a peasant skirt claims the table a few seats down from me. She catches my eye and smiles. I look away, cheeks burning. 

Only twenty-six minutes to go. 

I fidget, drink tea, cross and uncross my legs, all the while tolerating the light buzz against my clitoris. I realize I probably look like a weirdo sitting here with a closed book. I open to the first page and start skimming.

The prince awakens the golden-haired princess not with a kiss, but with his cock. He tells her she belongs to him, then spanks her, makes her come, and fucks her. It’s depraved. It’s pornographic. And now that I’m reading, I can’t stop.

My hips rock as the bullet pulsates, a tantalizing rhythm. I suppress a whimper. Though this story has never failed to arouse me on its own, coupled with the vibrator, it takes on new powers. I close my eyes and picture myself lying face down across Daniel’s lap. His hand coming down hard on my backside, and his erection nudging my stomach.

Without thinking, I reach into my purse and increase the speed of the bullet. What begins as a moan is quickly subdued to a cough. I want to squeeze my breasts and pinch my nipples. I want to grind my pelvis into the seat beneath me. Daniel may be five hours ahead and thousands of miles away, but he might as well be beside me with his finger on my clit. 

I keep reading, hearing the words as though they’re tumbling from his lips. Spoken with that gorgeous Welsh accent and irresistible grit, broken glass polished by the ocean. 

My pussy throbs. Every inch of me is alive, trembling, fighting to remain composedI let my legs splay beneath the table, forcing the vibrator to press only as firmly as the thong will allow. This delicious teasing calls to mind the time Daniel instructed me to lie on my bed with my pussy close to the webcam, because he wanted to witness every drop of wetness, every change in color and engorged fold. All the while whispering in my ears, “Now, stroke fast. Circle your clit. Rub harder. Softer now. Insert one finger. Two. Three. Now, come for me, my girl. Come.”

I hear Daniel’s voice in my head. He’s here, and everything else fades away. 

My inner muscles flutter. My face contorts. I turn my head towards the wall as pleasure echoes through me like a gong. Throb. Throb. Throb.

I’m well-versed in the art of the silent orgasm, but my face can’t lie. If the woman to my left were to slide into the booth across from me, there would be no mistaking my strained expression, radiant cheeks, and dewed brow. Daniel has shown me screen captures of my face at the peak of orgasm. He says it’s impossible for a woman to look unattractive at the height of her pleasure, and I believe him. 

The tension abates. I switch off the bullet and stop the recording on my phone. Even with the footage, he’ll want me to tell him everything, including ordinary details like where I sat on the bus and what type of tea I ordered. I check the time—thirty minutes on the dot—and smile to myself. Perhaps Daniel’s eccentric form of therapy will prove just as effective as medication and counseling. 

Of course, this doesn’t mean I’m cured; I’m neither naïve nor optimistic enough to assume that. But it does give me hope that I might one day be able to navigate an airport or stomach a seven-hour plane ride.

For now, I’ll settle for being proud of myself. 

The tables around me start to fill with customers. I turn my focus back to the book and finish the last of my chai, basking in the floaty afterglow. 

As I head for the door, I once again lock eyes with the woman in the peasant skirt. 

I smile. She smiles back. 

My mother is out when I return to the apartment. Glad for the solitude, I hand-wash the thong and bullet, then hang the panties to dry on my bedpost. I place the vibrator and remote back in the box they came in, and set the box in the bottom drawer of my bureau. 

I don’t bother putting on underwear before sitting down at my desk to attach the café video to an email addressed to Daniel. I write: 

Sir, thank you for the book and the bullet. 

It was an intellectually stimulating afternoon.

I’m glad I could share it with you.

Love, Your Sierra.

Also by Rachel:

Haunted Hearts: A Ghost Story
House Rules

Little Red
Make It Right
Wading In