Single White Submissive

by Madeleine Oh

  His shuddering breath told her she’d guessed correctly. Gently, he stretched her opening even wider, until the muscle burned. All four of his fingers slipped inside her, to the first joint. The second. And still he stretched her, wider and wider, until his knuckles thrust past her opening.

  She gasped, the brief pain swirling streamers of red and black through her vision.

  Then his hand was inside her, filling her as she’d never been filled. His fingers stroked the walls of her vagina, rubbing and circling, as slowly, slowly, he reached deeper and deeper. Her muscles clenched his fist, seizing and releasing him again and again. Each time, he moved just a little bit further inside her.

  She was going to go insane from the pleasure. He was killing her. She never wanted it to end.

  “Please, Master. Please. Please.”

  She didn’t know what she was begging for, to have him put her out of her agony now or to keep her writhing in his lap for hours.

  Then the tip of his middle finger brushed her cervix, and she exploded. She screamed, a wordless howl of ecstasy, as she bent back over his arm, lifting her hips in a final thrust against his fist. The force of her shudders pushed his hand out of her in a wet rush, as if she was in the final stages of giving birth, and she screamed again as his hand stretched her opening on the way out.

  He held her, cradled against his soft poet shirt, as she sobbed into the warm cotton. And continued sobbing, helpless to stop the tears. She felt the tension that rippled through him as he realized this was more than a simple release.

  He brushed the hair away from her face, tipping her head back to look at him.

  “Gayle, look at me. Did I hurt you?”

  The fear in his voice only made her cry harder.

  “Gayle.”

  She shook her head no. Then yes. “Just a little. It was worth it.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m twenty-six years old, and I never knew an orgasm could feel like that. If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have known. I’d have grown old and died, thinking I knew what good sex felt like. And I would have been wrong!”

  Rikard chuckled in relief. “Oh, is that all?”

  A giggle slipped out between sobs, then another, and soon she was laughing instead of crying. She slapped weakly at his chest, until he caught her hand and stopped her. Slowly, her laughter faded.

  She wiped roughly at her eyes.

  “God, I probably look a fright.”

  “I think you’re beautiful.”

  She stared up into his incredibly blue eyes, shining through the black leather of his mask. The moment stretched out like a note held impossibly long at the end of an aria.

  Then her cell phone rang.

  “Oh! Where’s my purse?”

  Rikard pulled it from the back of the chair she’d been sitting in and handed it to her. She fumbled for the cell phone, flipping it open and pressing the button to answer the incoming call.

  “Sorry it took so long. I couldn’t find my phone.”

  “I was starting to get worried,” her friend Carrie answered.

  “No, everything’s fine here.” Gayle covered the phone with her hand and whispered to Rikard, “My safety call.”

  “Take the call. I have to prepare the next course, anyway,” he murmured.

  Deftly, he slid out from beneath her. He cleared the table of the salad plates and forks, and carried them to the sink. She heard the clink of plates and a rush of water, followed by the throaty whoosh of a gas range, and the soft opening and closing of kitchen cabinets.

  “Gayle?” Carrie asked. “You sound kind of funny. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I have just had the most amazing orgasm of my life,” Gayle whispered.

  There was a moment of silence. “I thought you were having lunch.”

  “We are. The orgasm came after the strawberry salad. It was to die for.” She turned and looked over her shoulder into the kitchen. Rikard was spraying oil onto a griddle pan. He’d taken the cover off the platter he’d placed on the counter earlier, revealing two red slabs of meat, liberally coated with seasonings. “I think we’re having steak for the entrée.”

  “You had sex right there among the salad plates?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  “You did it on the floor? Up against the wall?”

  “On a kitchen chair, actually.”

  “Gayle, honey, are you listening to yourself? You aren’t a ‘sex on the first date’ kind of girl.”

  “Technically, this is our second date.”

  “And you slept with him less than an hour into it! The man is messing with your head somehow. Maybe calling him a Svengali wasn’t so far off the mark.”

  Vigorous sizzles came from the kitchen, along with a heavenly aroma blending Asian spices and seafood. Gayle moaned, her mouth watering, and closed her eyes to better focus on the delicious smell.

  “Good grief! Is he touching you now?” Carrie demanded.

  “No. He just put the steaks on the grill. I think they’re tuna steaks. They smell so good.”

  Rikard called, “Two minutes.”

  “I’ve got to go. The food’s almost done.”

  “I’ll call you back in an hour.”

  “There’s no need. I’ll be fine with him.”

  “Uh-huh. Then you won’t mind me calling back in an hour.”

  “Okay, but if I don’t answer right away, it’s not because something’s wrong. It’s because we’re having incredibly hot sex and I don’t want to stop to answer the damned phone.”

  “Hey, you asked me to do this for you. Don’t get all snotty with me just because I’m doing what you asked me to.”

  “Oh, Carrie, I’m sorry. I know, you’re just trying to help. But that’s what I’m telling you. I don’t need your help on this anymore.”

  “Humor me. Okay?”

  “You’re wasting your time. But if it’ll make you feel better, fine. Call back in an hour. I have to go now. Lunch is almost ready.”

  “All right. But tonight, after you get home, you’re giving me the whole story about what went on during this date.”

  “Deal.”

  Gayle closed the phone and stuffed it back into her purse. She hadn’t realized Carrie was such a worrywart.

  Although usually Carrie was incredibly laidback, unless it involved a shoe sale. Maybe there was something to her concern. Now that Gayle thought about it, she was acting out of character. She normally took forever to make important decisions, preferring to thoroughly research all the aspects of whatever she was deciding. She should have spent hours debating the pros and cons of having sex with Rikard, instead of just opening her legs and melting beneath his touch.

  And letting him fist her! Never mind that it had been the most mind-blowing experience ever. The point is, she hadn’t even kissed him yet. She’d jumped right in to the kinky sex, with no thought other than satisfying the raging need churning within her. That definitely wasn’t like her.

  The sizzling stopped, and she heard the rapid strike of a knife against a cutting board. Then Rikard carried two plates to the table.

  “Take your seat,” he prompted.

  She blushed, realizing she was still in his chair. Hanging her purse over her chair back, she switched seats.

  He set her plate down on her charger, then put down his own plate and sat. She’d guessed correctly. A slab of tuna steak, coated in red, brown, black and white spices, rested on a colorful bed of sliced cucumbers and radishes. The tuna was sliced in ten narrow pieces, each one shading from gray through pink to a hint of red, then back to gray. A golden brown sauce was drizzled decoratively back and forth across the entire plate.

  Gayle closed her eyes and inhaled the sharp aroma. Her eyes watered, and she blinked rapidly.

  “Does this have a lot of pepper in it?”

  “Wasabi.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Wasabi paste. It’s Japanese. And very strong.
Really opens up the sinuses.” He smiled. “If hot foods aren’t to your taste, just avoid the sauce. But you ordered chai at the café, so I figured you’d like it.”

  A warm glow suffused her. He’d paid attention to what she’d ordered at the café, and used that to decide what kind of lunch she’d like. He really meant it when he’d said he wanted to care and cosset any woman who became his submissive.

  Carefully, she separated one of the slices of tuna. Feeling his eyes upon her, she lifted the fork up and slid the fish into her mouth.

  Flavors burst to life on her tongue. The sauce held a hint of acidity—soy sauce or vinegar—and heat, which must be the wasabi. But the tuna itself was seasoned with warm spices like cinnamon and ginger, and the unexpected taste of licorice, as well as the more prosaic salt, pepper, onion and garlic.

  Gayle groaned. “Oh God, that’s good.”

  “Try the vegetables.”

  The radishes and cucumbers were crisp and crunchy, perfect counterpoints to the sharp sauce. “Fabulous.”

  Rikard relaxed and picked up his own fork. “I hope you’ll have room for dessert.”

  She gulped and swallowed her mouthful of tuna and cucumber. “There’s more?”

  When she’d fantasized about him serving a three-course meal on her body, it had been just a fantasy. She hadn’t seriously expected such a lavish lunch.

  “Of course. But if you’d prefer, I can show you the rest of the house first, then we can come back for dessert later.”

  “After I’ve worked up more of an appetite?” she teased.

  He laughed. “I’ll show you the playroom. Then you can decide if you’d like to work up an appetite or not.”

  His molten gaze scorched the skin of her neck and chest, her nipples tingling and tightening as his attention slipped lower. Her pulse beat, slow and heavy between her thighs.

  “I want to play,” she whispered.

  Chapter Four

  Rikard smiled at Gayle’s admission. “We can play after lunch. But we’re supposed to be learning about each other. Tell me about some of the productions you’ve been in.”

  He listened attentively, asking pointed and intelligent questions, as she described her theatrical background. She’d had lead roles in a slate of standard musicals—Annie Get Your Gun, Oklahoma!, Fiddler on the Roof, My Fair Lady, and Camelot—as well as innovative and experimental works like Merrily We Roll Along, which started at the end and went backwards to the beginning, and archy and mehitabel, the story of Don Marquis’ literary cockroach and the cat who befriended him.

  Rikard didn’t seem to care all that much about the staging or dance details, although he did listen politely. But when she described the songs, he came alive.

  All too soon, the delicious lunch was consumed. She set her fork down, and drank the last of her water.

  “But I’ve been going on and on about me. What about you? What are some of the things you’ve worked on?”

  Gently, he sang, “Everything’s sweeter in the dark of night. Dark desire. Dark chocolate.”

  “Earworm!” she shouted. “I’m going to have that stuck in my head for days, now.”

  “I told you the jingles paid the rent.”

  “Do you have any idea how many bars of Desire chocolate I scarfed down because of that damn jingle? I’d be in the store, see the candy, the tune would start running through my head, and next thing I knew, I had half a pound of chocolate in my cart.”

  His warm gaze stroked her body with admiration. “It couldn’t have been too many bars.”

  “That’s why I have to go jogging every morning.”

  “Every morning?” Horizontal creases formed across his forehead, even though his raised eyebrows were hidden behind the mask.

  “Yeah. The office only opens at nine o’clock. The last place I worked started earlier, and I had a longer commute, so I’m used to getting up at six. I have a nice jog and leisurely breakfast, then shower and dress for work.”

  “I never worked a regular schedule,” he admitted. “Sometimes I’d spend all day slaving over a single phrase, twisting and turning it every way possible until it sounded like how I wanted it to sound. And sometimes everything would flow so perfectly, I was done in two hours. That was for home days. During tours, the schedule was more regimented, although still not what anyone would call regular.”

  “Tours? I didn’t know composers went on tour.”

  “I did.” He stood, and cleared the table. “Speaking of tours, are you ready for your tour of the house, now?”

  A shiver rippled over her skin. “Yes.”

  Taking her hand in his gloved one, Rikard led her out of the kitchen.

  “Hey, your glove’s all wet.”

  “Damp, not wet. I washed my hands earlier, before cooking the tuna steaks.”

  “With your gloves on? Can you do that?” She hadn’t been paying attention, since she was on the phone at the time, but she’d just assumed he’d taken the gloves off while cooking, then put them back on when it was time to serve the meal.

  “They’re deerskin. It’s washable.” They returned to the open entryway, and he led her through the arch opposite the music room. “This is the home theater.”

  A huge flat-screen television that was at least four feet across was mounted on the wall. A modular reclining sofa with built-in cup holders and snack tables faced the television. Trim black speakers were mounted in the corners of the room and bolted to the floor. The only other furniture was a wrought iron cabinet, filled two-thirds of the way full with DVDs.

  “Do you watch a lot of movies?”

  “Not so much now. For a while that was pretty much all I did.”

  She nodded. That would be after his car accident, while he was recovering from the injuries that had nearly blinded him. He probably had broken bones, too, and wasn’t supposed to move much.

  He turned and led her out of the room, back to the foyer. She followed him up the stairs to the spacious landing. Four doors radiated off it, two before them and two to the sides.

  “My bedroom and the master bathroom,” he indicated, pointing to the left-hand door before them. Then he pointed to the right. “The guest bedroom. It shares a bathroom with my recording studio.”

  Gayle tensed with anticipation, knowing where the remaining door must lead. Rikard turned her to face the door, and gave her a gentle push forward.

  “The playroom. Open the door.”

  Unlike the other doors, this one had a heavy silver lock, with an antique key in it. She tested the doorknob, and when the door didn’t move, turned the key. The lock snapped open with a loud click of its tumblers, and the door swung outward.

  “I warn you, it was decorated in a fit of self-indulgence,” Rikard cautioned.

  She stepped inside, her eyes going wide. Any windows the room had once possessed had been blocked up. The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with trompe l’oeil paintings that gave the appearance of being in a rocky cave, softened by sweeps of burgundy velvet. She glanced upward. The ceiling was painted, too. Flickering torches were mounted on the walls, and branches of lit candelabra were scattered around the room. Despite knowing that she was on the second floor of a modern house, her mind insisted she was standing in a cave belowground. Even the air seemed different, cool and damp.

  “Isn’t all this open flame a fire safety violation?” she asked, the mundane question the only thing she could think of to say in response to the bizarre setting.

  “They’re not real candles or torches. The candles are a flickering bulb designed to simulate candlelight. And the torches are just orange satin, blown by a fan.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw his gloved hand resting beside the doorway, where a light switch would normally be. Where a light switch no doubt actually was, camouflaged by paint, to control the candles and torches.

  She nodded, allowing her eyes to focus on the contents of the room. Black padded benches in different heights, with triangular leather pillow wedges, o
ccupied much of the floor space. A wrought iron wine table had been repurposed to hold a collection of floggers instead of stemware and paddles instead of wine bottles, with two black woven baskets hiding their contents from view inside the base cupboard of the unit. And a number of heavy eyebolts had been screwed into the wall and ceiling. Some had chains dangling from them, while others were bare.

  “I feel like I’ve stepped back in time,” she whispered.

  “To a time when a man was truly the lord of his castle, and had the power to enforce his desires?”

  She nodded, her legs beginning to tremble. “You said you were interested in scene play. What scenes play out in here?”

  He stepped up behind her, hands wrapping loosely around her waist to pull her against him. His masked cheek rested against her hair.

  “What scenes would you like to play?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, I’d only ever done a little bondage before. And that was straightforward, let’s-tie-you-to-the-bedposts sex.”

  “Then perhaps you are a lovely Victorian maid, innocently sailing to Spain, when your ship is attacked by pirates. The pirate captain is captivated by your beauty.” Rikard reached up and stroked her cheek with the back of one gloved finger. “And so, rather than killing you, he takes you back to his hideout. He will spare your life, if you can convince him that it is worth his while to keep you as a slave. A slave to service all of his sexual needs.”

  She shivered, leaning against Rikard’s warmth. In his black mask, laced leather pants and poet shirt, he looked like a pirate. Her imagination ran wild, inspired by his words, until she smelled the cordite, and squinted against the fog of gunsmoke that blurred her vision. Distantly, she heard the cries of men fighting and dying.

  “And if I am unable to convince you, Captain?”

  “Then I will give you to my men. They deserve a treat.” He trailed his finger between her breasts, down to her pussy. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t survive the experience.”