She nodded and apologized.
“If you scream loud enough to rouse the hotel staff I’d be forced to tell them a kinky schoolteacher had asked me to do all those mean things to her.” Her eyes grew big as golf balls when I said that, and I laughed to myself at how worried she was about what other people thought.
It wasn’t really funny, but it had been so long since I’d given a fuck what anyone else thought … I couldn’t remember giving a rat’s ass.
Then I fucked her with my nightstick. Just to watch her face. Seeing her face contorted like that, God it made my dick throb, fucking strain against my pants. I loved being aroused like that. So hard for so long that it is torture in and of itself. It’s how I like to spend my days, hard and wanting. I don’t allow myself a release every time I think about it. Nope.
It’s a game I play with myself. How long can I go before my cock’s going to explode all over myself?
You see, I don’t just test my submissive’s limits, I test my own as well.
A game of balance between self-control and pleasure.
And that weekend little Sophie tested my self-control.
I caned her a couple of times and watched that glorious ass of hers stripe with red marks.
I swatted every inch of her body with my crop, paying special attention to her breasts and her adorable little pussy, stinging it to just the right amount of tenderness that when I licked it good and thoroughly with my tongue, noting which flick of the tongue made her squirm and doing more of it, she came all over my face like a good ’lil whore.
Then I kissed her, my beard covered in her juices, daring her to resist, knowing that she wouldn’t.
I played with her for an entire weekend before I finally gave in to our mutual desire to feel our bodies joined as one. It was after breakfast on our last morning together. I hadn’t yet decided whether or not to have intercourse with her. If I needed a release I could freely use her mouth. I’d done that several times already. A part of me still wished to hold back, leave it at that. Yes, she wanted it, but she was the submissive. It was up to me whether or not that happened, and I’d yet to make up my mind.
“Convince me,” I told her.
I made her beg, and it was exquisitely erotic to hear those sweet lips ask so politely for my cock.
“I don’t believe you really want it. Make me believe you,” I snarled. She was on the bed, naked and tangled in the sheets. I pushed her down on her back and straddled her face. “Take me in your mouth. Get me ready, and then we’ll see if you deserve a good, hard fucking.”
Pushing my hips toward her mouth, I slipped my semi-hard dick into that luscious mouth of hers and pushed some more. I pulled back then pressed in again. Her wet mouth felt heavenly. The point of her dainty little tongue on the underside, flicking against the thick vein that ran underneath, it drove me to distraction and I thrust until the tip of my cock reached the back of her mouth. She gagged slightly, the muscles in her throat closing deliciously around me, bringing me even more pleasure.
Damn. I had to fuck her. I’d held off for the entire weekend, but I knew that if I left now not having enjoyed that particular act, I would be kicking myself for the rest of my life—wondering if it would have been as good as I imagined.
So I did it. In order to remain the steadfastly evil Dom she’d come to expect, I situated a pair of forks under her ass cheeks so while I was fucking her, they dug into her flesh. But that was what I was training her for—to appreciate the combination of pleasure and pain together. For every ounce of pleasure there is a price to be paid, usually with pain.
My hands caressed every inch of her torso as I fucked her. Now that I’d given in to my own lust, I needed to experience her body fully, with all my senses. Wanting to get as deep inside her as possible I lifted her ankles and hooked them behind my neck then drove into her, the end of my cock hitting her cervix. The way she flinched let me know it hurt at least a little so I watched her, and soon those little flinches turned into ecstatic moans.
I took her breasts in my hands and pinched and pulled at her nipples. Stretching them until she cried out. Twisting them, making her squirm underneath me until she begged me to let her come.
“Do it. I want to feel you come all over my dick. Do it now!”
And just like that her walls began to contract around me, sending me into overdrive. I grabbed her hips and fucked her faster and faster. She felt so fucking good. Felt like where I belonged.
And that scared me, made me fear I’d lose control in some way.
But it felt primal to take her, and I needed that. It completed the weekend-long session and made me feel like I’d truly claimed her as my submissive. A voice in the back of my head said, “This is my woman. I can do with her what I like.” And ever since that first weekend I hadn’t been interested in other women. From then on, it was only Sophie.
As I look back on our relationship and the mistakes I’ve made—there have been lots of times that I didn’t use the right head for decision making. Or even my right mind.
Remembering the first weekend with my beloved Sophie never failed to get me off, and tonight was no exception. I imagined her face, masked in ecstasy, heard her voice begging, “Please, Sir.” I relived the most erotic of my entire catalog of memories, the ones I kept stored away never failed to get me off. With a final tug, I watched the rope of white fluid spurt into the air like a fountain before settling on my pelvis and stomach. Wistfully, I wished Sophie were with me. Had she been I’d have ordered her to clean me, and she would have licked me all over like a kitten then curled up next to me. Then I would stroke her hair until she fell asleep.
But instead, I reached for a towel I’d thrown on the floor that morning and wiped it up myself before turning my attention to the window, waiting for sunrise.
9
Quentin
Silence enveloped the room.
Usually too much dead space in a conversation got the other person talking. Not so with Dr. Beckett. Clearly she was used to long stretches of quiet in the conversations that took place in her office, and she had no problem waiting me out.
I looked around, taking in the neutral furnishings that gave little away about the fair-haired, hazel-eyed woman sitting across from me. I’d never spent much time thinking about her during previous sessions, but all this quiet made me notice that behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses hid what must at one time have been a pretty face.
The doc had small breasts and narrow hips, and I imagined her tossing those prim frames aside, stripping naked and worshipping my cock, my lash landing upon her backside.
Alas, the image brought me no pleasure, and I sighed. “I’m not sure what else to talk about. I think we’ve covered just about everything.”
“Everything?” she asked.
“Yes, everything. And I don’t see the point of this anymore.”
“Ah. But there’s one thing you’ve refused to talk about,” she said with a mildly reproachful tilt of her head. I wanted to smack the bitch.
“The death of my son,” I muttered evenly.
She nodded.
“I don’t see what it would help.”
She shrugged. “You won’t know until you do it.”
I took a deep breath. As much as I hated to pull off the bandage I knew she’d never give me peace until I did. I’d give her the abridged version and show her that it wouldn’t do a damned thing to help me. Then maybe she’d leave me the fuck alone about it.
“Fine. His name was Sam. He died when he was six.” A chill ran through me, and I could feel a cold sweat bead up from my every pore. I hadn’t spoken his name since I’d told Sophie about him. And now my beloved Sophie was carrying another child of mine. What if I somehow destroyed him too?
“What happened just now? You flinched. Tell me about that.”
“Nothing. It’s just uncomfortable to talk about.”
She nodded. “Continue.”
I took a deep breath. “It was a hot day. Au
gust. We had a boat, and I took him out fishing. His mother had a headache so she stayed home. She had migraines, and the sunlight—made them worse. So Sam and I went by ourselves. It was a nice day. He was excited because he’d caught more fish than me. Couldn’t wait to get home and brag to his mother. When it was time to come in I told him to sit still in his seat in the boat, and I went to turn the motor on.”
I paused. My heart raced in my chest, and I closed my eyes to shut out the doctor’s prying eyes before I said, “That’s when I heard him scream.”
And suddenly I was back on that boat, watching the macabre scene play out in front of me. With as much blood and terror as a horror film. Only this was real. It was my life. My son’s life. The last few moments of it.
“I saw Sam thrashing around in the water. His lucky fishing hat floated about four feet away in the water. But wait, he was supposed to be sitting on the other side of the boat. How did he …? Later I decided that his hat must have blown into the water and he’d gone in after it, but at the time I didn’t know why …
“There was all the blood. The lake looked like an eerie combination of dark red and blue combining to create a deadly dark purple. I cut the motor off, jumped in, and pulled his small body to me. His long limbs kicked. Then slowed. Then they were still.
“Somehow I dragged him out of the water, and onto the boat. Laid him on the deck, blood spurted from his mangled leg in that rhythmic way a fish’s gills gasp for air. Panicked, I pressed my hand to the wound, willing the blood to stay in his body. I tried to think. What to do? How to help him. My baby boy lay next to me, his life’s blood seeping all over the floor of my boat.
“I stood up, my own blood pounding deafeningly in my ears. I looked around for something to stop the bleeding with. I needed to make a tourniquet of some kind, so I found a beach towel and grabbed my phone.”
No service. No fucking service!
I knelt beside him.
It’s okay, buddy. Going to be okay, I lied as I tied the towel above his gaping wound, furiously trying to stop the bleeding.
It wasn’t until I’d secured it that I noticed he wasn’t breathing.
A burst of adrenaline took over, and I started CPR. Blinded by tears, I pressed my hands to his tiny chest, trying to pump life back into him. A voice in the back of my mind told me he had no more blood left to course through his small heart. Raging at the very notion, I continued my vain attempts until I collapsed onto the deck next to him hours later from exhaustion.
Lying there, bathed in his blood, I will never forget how angelic he looked. How peaceful. Like he’d just fallen asleep. As if any minute he’d open his eyes and ask me how long it would be until we’d be home, and he could tell his mom how many fish he’d caught.
I don’t know how long I lay there. Until the sun started to dip in the sky.
Covered in my son’s blood, I finally stood up to head back to shore. I don’t remember the trip back.
Suddenly I was back in the present again. In my shrink’s office. My face was damp, and Dr. Beckett was handing me a box of tissues. I took one.
“What’s the next thing you remember?” she asked.
“Telling my wife. That’s something else I’ll never forget. Calling the police. That whole scene. For a couple of days they treated me as some sort of suspect.”
“How did that go?”
I shook my head. “They ruled it an accident, but that didn’t stop them from making our lives an even worse hell than they already were.”
Dr. Beckett nodded. Her face and demeanor said, “I understand,” but she couldn’t possibly.
“So, for all this time, you’ve been blaming yourself for your son’s death?”
I nodded. “When I turned on that engine and started that propeller it sliced into my son’s leg, I killed him.”
“But Quentin, it was an accident. You didn’t mean to, and you did your best to save him.”
I shook my head, grief as familiar as a well-worn pair of old shoes welled up inside me. “Don’t you see? The result is the same. He’s gone. I will never see him again. My son will never grow a day older than he was that day. He will never go to middle school or high school or college. He’ll never get married or have a family.
And I will never hold him again, nor will his mother.”
Though I felt her sympathy permeate the room, it was now Dr. Beckett’s turn to be silent.
Burying my face in my hands, I repeated the words that had become a mantra to me, “My son is dead, and it’s my fault.”
10
Quentin
During the next week, I gave Kate some instructions that would be pivotal in my plan to get Sophie back.
“She said she’s not interested, boss. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“This is not for you to question. If you want to get paid just do what I say.”
“I still think you should have pulled out the ring …” Damn, but she was impertinent. Why did everyone have an opinion these days?
“Again—didn’t ask you.”
“Fine. What do you want me to do again?”
“I need you to become friends with Sophie on Facebook.”
“With my real name?”
“No. Make something up. Swipe some photos of somebody you know. Someone who’s married with kids who looks like they’d be friends with a kindergarten teacher and create a fake account. Friend a bunch of people she’s friends with. The ones who like to keep score will accept your request and then when you send one to her it will say “five mutual friends” or something and she will think that she should know you. Or maybe that she does know you. She just forgot, and then she’ll accept your request because A) She thinks she’s supposed to know you, and B) She doesn’t want to come across as rude.”
God, it was so easy getting in with someone through social media. Between our social conventions surrounding politeness and the new narcissism that has more people dying from taking selfies than from car accidents, it was a cinch to penetrate the walls of a person’s life.
Ever since I came back from Fort Worth I’d been trying to come up with a plan for how to get Sophie alone for a few hours. Then I realized I was going to need Kate’s help. There were certain things a woman would have access to that I wouldn’t. Like all the personal crap women threw up on their Facebook pages. Everything from pictures of their dogs to travel plans.
I scrolled down my own Facebook feed and saw this status along with a picture of some twat in a bikini.
Oh look at my brand new bathing suit—I’m going to the Bahamas this weekend. Bottoms up!
Just when I didn’t think people could get more stupid … That was the sort of crap in a way I hoped Sophie would post.
If Sophie posted a status telling the world she was leaving town I would seriously spank her. Hard. She could be robbed or some creepy stalker could break into her house and lie in wait for her upon her return.
“Then what?” Kate was saying.
“Then I want you to give me the login information.”
“So you can spy on her?”
“What I’m going to do with it is none of your business Kate,” I snapped.
“Sorry, boss.”
I needed to know as much about what was going on with Sophie as possible. Hopefully she would talk about the baby on her Facebook page, and I could get information that way. She might not be ready to share news of our little bundle of joy with the world quite yet, but eventually she would. And even if not, at least I’ll know something. More than she was currently giving me.
After my talk with Kate I thought more about my plan to spy on Sophie’s Facebook page. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that if Sophie found out, she’d be upset with me. My deceiving her was the main reason we weren’t together. I could still follow her Facebook page, I just needed to “friend” her myself so everything was above board.
I called Kate and told her to abort operation stalk Sophie on the Internet.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Kate said. “If she found out she’d be really pissed.”
“I realize that. Oh and Kate, there’s one more thing.”
“Yes, boss?”
“How would you like to go to Hawaii?”
11
Quentin
The next week I considered canceling my appointment with Dr. Beckett. I’d decided I had no real need for interpersonal relationships, so why bother attending therapy? I could learn to jack off to porn like a “normal” guy without a submissive, and my work would keep me busy. My music was fulfilling, and now that I could add the words “Oscar winner” before my name, I’d have all the work I could handle in the foreseeable future.
But every time I picked up the phone to cancel my appointment, something stopped me.
So when my usual time rolled around on Tuesday I found myself sitting in my regular chair looking around her office. Each week, I searched for discernible clues as to Dr. Beckett’s personal life, but I never uncovered any. Her office furniture was neutral in both color and design. It bothered me that the only things adorning her walls were her doctorate degree and a triptych of modern art paintings. A regular Rorschach inkblot test used for decoration. I imagined her asking me what I saw in them, and my temper started to rise.
“You look agitated,” she observed.
I exhaled, but said nothing.
“You seem upset. What were you just thinking about?”
Rolling my eyes, I answered, “I was just thinking about those pictures and how pissed off I’m going to be if you ask me what I see in them. They look like a fucking inkblot test.”
She considered this. “I’m not going to do that. The inkblot test uses very specific cards that have been tested and researched for almost a hundred years. Those pictures are simply meant to accent the wall. I find the colors soothing.”
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