It wasn’t a question and Owen didn’t answer, but he knew she was right. He could do this. Not only that, he wanted to do this. He never wanted it to stop. He felt as if he could stay here forever, bound in leather cuffs, spread eagle against the wall while this beautiful, sexy woman worked her magic on him until time itself stopped.
Mistress Sylvie dragged the leather tag of the riding crop lightly over his stomach, drawing it in a teasing circle around his raging erection before sliding it up his body. She slapped at his biceps with the crop.
“You’re strong,” she said. “I like that.” She smacked him harder, the blows like tiny leather bees up and down his arms and along both sides of his body.
Finally she set the crop down and reached up to unclip Owen’s wrist cuffs. No! he wanted to shout. Don’t stop. Not now. Not ever. But somehow he managed to keep his mouth shut. Had the hour already passed? Could it be possible? He’d have to get ninety minutes next time.
But instead of telling him to get dressed, she said, “Turn toward the wall and assume the same position against the cross. We’re not done.”
Owen’s gratitude must have shown in his face, because Mistress Sylvie laughed, shaking her head. “Greedy boy. Go on. Do as you’re told.”
Owen did, lifting his arms high and allowing himself to be cuffed into place. She knelt behind him, her hair brushing his bare legs as she leaned to cuff his ankles to the base of the cross. Owen’s erect cock was caught between the intersecting midpoint of the cross and his body, pressing hard against his belly. He turned his head so his cheek was resting against the cool wall. He could feel his heart, still beating fast and high in his chest.
“We’re going to use this for your ass and back.” Mistress Sylvie held up a flogger for Owen to see. The handle was tightly braided in a red and black checkered pattern, the dozen or more tresses hanging from it made of black leather.
Just looking at the flogger made Owen’s cock go even more rigid, if that was possible. He could see Mistress Sylvie in his peripheral vision. With a flick of her wrist the leather tresses of the flogger made contact with Owen’s ass. He jerked forward, the wood of the cross rubbing against his shaft as he moved.
She struck again, harder this time. The pain was more diffuse, easier to take than the crop, which landed in such a concentrated area. But to make up for this, she hit him harder, the leather tresses flying, some of the tips curling cruelly around his side, the skin of which was already tender from the crop.
She flogged his ass, his thighs, his back and his shoulders. With each blow his cock was pressed against the wood and he realized he was inches, seconds, away from shooting his load.
“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, his hands clenching into fists as he fought the familiar tug in his balls that signaled an impending orgasm. Maybe she didn’t realize what she was doing, or maybe she did, but Mistress Sylvie didn’t stop. If anything, she struck him harder, focusing on his burning ass, forcing his body against the wooden cross with each stroke.
She struck him again and again, and yet again, a rain of stinging leather slapping against his ass, punctuated by his own involuntary grunting, pulled from a place deep within him.
“You need this pain. You were born to this, weren’t you, boy?”
Owen couldn’t answer, unless his gasping grunts could be considered a reply. He was doing everything he could to keep the jism pulsing up through his shaft from erupting against the wooden cross. All at once he felt her moving close behind him, her leather-clad breasts touching his back, strong fingers kneading his welted ass.
He couldn’t help it. Her nearness, her touch, her scent, his burning skin, the leather cuffs tight around his wrists and ankles, the vulnerability of his position—it all conspired to send him over the edge, helpless against the torrent of his orgasm, which was as powerful as any he could remember. He felt the gush, and his body shuddered in its aftermath as he sagged in his cuffs and struggled to catch his breath.
He felt the cool air on his back. Mistress Sylvie had stepped back. She said something in rapid French and gave a small, trilling laugh. “Oh dear, dear, dear,” she continued in English. “Do you know what happens to slave boys who come without permission?”
Owen felt his face scalding and he closed his eyes. He could feel the sticky ejaculate against his stomach and found himself wishing he could disappear. But bound as he was, he wasn’t going anywhere. Not only that, she had asked him a direct and very embarrassing question.
“No, Mistress,” he forced himself to reply.
He felt her hand on his cheek. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly gentle. “They get punished, Owen. They need to be taught a lesson. By the time you leave me after your next visit, you will know exactly what I mean.”
Taught a lesson.
The words seared themselves into his mind like a brand. Fantasy was one thing, but as he leaned against the cross, naked, bound and at the mercy of this strong, sexy woman, he had to wonder—was he really up for this? She’d called today’s session an introduction—a focus on sensation. An actual punishment had to involve more pain—both physical and mental.
A sudden image leaped sharply into his mind. He saw himself naked and lying on his back on the floor with Mistress Sylvie, standing over him, hands on her hips, green eyes flashing. The vision broadened to include Isabel and several other women, each sexier than the last, standing in a circle around Owen, laughing as Mistress Sylvie ground the sharp point of her stiletto heel into his balls.
Owen was jerked from his brief fantasy when he felt the soft press of Mistress Sylvie’s breasts against his back as she released his wrist cuffs. He immediately missed her sensual proximity when she stepped back, kneeling behind him to unclip the ankle cuffs.
“Turn around and thank me properly,” she ordered.
Owen lowered his arms and turned slowly toward his Mistress. “Thank you, Mistress Sylvie,” he managed, aware his face must be beet red. Mistress Sylvie offered a knowing smile as she raked his naked body with her eyes. Owen glanced down at what should have been his flagging cock. Instead, he realized with chagrin he was sporting a raging erection that pointed toward Mistress Sylvie like a divining rod.
“My, my,” she said, her mouth curving into a small, cruel smile. “Next time I think we’ll have a longer session. From the looks of things”—she raked his naked body with a cool, amused gaze—“you’re going to need it.”
Chapter 3
Owen had thought of little else but Mistress Sylvie in the four days since their last session. He alternated between anxiety and thrilled excitement at the promised threat of punishment for his uncontrolled orgasm.
As a partner in a small but successful Manhattan architecture firm, Owen could pretty much make his own hours. He had wanted to meet sooner, but this had been the first ninety-minute slot Mistress Sylvie had available.
As before, Isabel opened the door of the Village townhouse, ushering him in. She was dressed in a pantsuit this time, cut from pale blue silk that matched her icy blue eyes. She was attractive, in a cold, Nordic sort of way, with angled cheekbones and white-blond hair, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Mistress Sylvie’s warm, vibrant beauty.
Once upstairs, Isabel knocked softly at Mistress Sylvie’s door and stood back, letting Owen enter. Having again come straight from work, he set down his briefcase just inside the door, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the lovely Mistress Sylvie. She was sitting on a high stool in the center of the room. Her coppery hair fell in soft waves around her face, and her large, green eyes flashed toward him as he drank her in.
She looked incredibly sexy in a sleeveless white silky blouse, so sheer he could see her bare nipples beneath it. Her breasts were round and full, but with a yielding curve that told him they were not implants, but her own natural perfection. Her black leather skirt hugged her curves, stopping several inches above the knee to reveal slender but muscular thighs. Her feet were shod in black, shiny high heels. Owen was mesmerized as she
crossed one long, perfect leg over the other, revealing a brief flash of red satin panties.
“Are you forgetting yourself? What is the first thing you are to do when you enter a room in my presence?”
Owen snapped out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, Mistress.” He tugged at his clothing, working buttons and his zipper as fast he could, placing his things in a pile on the table. Naked, he approached his Mistress and knelt on the square of carpet at her feet.
“Better,” Mistress Sylvie said, tapping one perfect red nail against her knee. Owen’s heart was beating high in his throat as he waited for whatever came next.
“Our last session was an introduction,” Mistress Sylvie began. “Today we will delve a little deeper into what makes you tick. I want you to be entirely honest in your reactions, is that understood? I demand complete obedience, and this includes withholding nothing of yourself. True submission can only come with the honest baring of your soul.”
Her words jolted through his brain like lightning and he touched his throat, wondering what it would be like to wear a slave collar. “Hands at your sides,” Mistress Sylvie commanded. Owen dropped his hand, but the imagined snug of leather against his throat lingered.
Mistress Sylvie slipped from the stool. “Follow me. I want to try something.” Owen started to rise but Mistress Sylvie’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “You will crawl behind me.”
Owen felt his cheeks flame with humiliation, though a flame of a different sort was heating his loins. Getting on his hands and knees, he crawled behind Mistress Sylvie on the hard wooden floor to the bondage table, his eyes trained on her swaying ass and hips. He climbed onto the table and started to lie on his back until Mistress Sylvie said, “On your stomach. Rest your face in the cradle cushion.”
At the head of the table was a horseshoe-shaped pillow, covered in the same black leather as the padded table. Rolling to his stomach, Owen placed his forehead against the pillow, his arms resting on the table along his sides. He didn’t like that he couldn’t see Mistress Sylvie, facing down as he was. He was tense with anticipation. Was the promised punishment from last week to take place on this table? Or had she forgotten about that altogether? Was he relieved or disappointed? A little of both, perhaps.
Mistress Sylvie stood beside him and placed her hands flat against his back, moving her palms over his skin. “Relax,” she said softly. “I can feel the tension in your muscles. Close your eyes and focus on letting go.” She began to knead his muscles with strong, sure fingers. Owen closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. Her hands moved lower, stroking and massaging his ass cheeks.
“Have you ever been fucked in the ass, Owen?”
“No, Mistress,” Owen replied, glad now she couldn’t see his face.
“You are an anal virgin?” she asked in her sexy French accent.
Direct question. “Yes, Mistress Sylvie.”
He tensed as he felt her spreading his ass cheeks and realized his hands were clenching into fists. “We will remedy that, Owen. I will claim every part of you, is that understood?” She held his cheeks apart.
Owen gulped, his face burning as he imagined her staring down at his exposed asshole. Nevertheless, he forced himself to reply, “Yes, Mistress Sylvie.”
“Relax your hands. Stop resisting me. I won’t have it.”
Owen forced his fingers to unfurl and took a deep breath, which he exhaled slowly.
“Better.” Mistress Sylvie let go of his ass cheeks. She continued the massage a while longer, digging strong fingers into tight muscles Owen hadn’t realized he’d been clenching. Slowly the muscles released their anxious grip, relaxing until Owen felt as if he were melting into the padded table.
A sudden, sharp smack on Owen’s ass woke him from the sensual lethargy her touch had induced, kicking his heart back into gear. He could hear the click of her high heels as she moved away and then returned to him. He kept his face pressed into the cradle, resisting the impulse to raise his head just enough to follow Mistress Sylvie with his eyes.
Again his ass cheeks were parted. Owen started a little when he felt the sudden cold wetness of what he realized must be lubricant cover his puckered hole. “Relax,” Mistress Sylvie soothed above him, as her finger lightly rimmed his asshole. “Relax, my virgin slave boy. I will be gentle.” She laughed, a low, sexy laugh, part taunting, part genuine humor. He loved the sound of her voice, which was smooth and soft like velvet, but with more than a hint of steel beneath it.
Owen smiled in spite of himself and did relax, if just a little. The finger pressed gently against his entrance, moving easily past the ring of muscle. Owen felt his cock rising hard beneath him, caught at an uncomfortable angle, and he lifted his hips slightly to try and straighten out the kink.
“Oh ho,” laughed Mistress Sylvie. “Offering yourself to me. Very good, Owen. Very good indeed.” She pushed her finger deeper inside him. Owen didn’t correct her error. He grunted as she began to move the digit inside him. Though he’d expected to hate it, he found to his surprise that it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
The finger was withdrawn, but a moment later he was invaded again. From the stretch, he realized she’d added a second finger. As they moved deeper, he felt a sudden, sharp zing of pleasure shoot through him.
“Oh!” he cried involuntarily.
“Found it,” Mistress Sylvie said, triumph in her voice. “Your sweet spot, Owen. Every man has one, if you know how to look.” She crooked her fingers inside him, and again the shooting, hot pleasure moved through him. He moaned softly, arching against her hand, this time on purpose, as she chuckled her approval.
She continued to stroke him from the inside out, while his cock pulsed against the padded table. Jesus, he thought. If she keeps this up, I’m going to come again. Knowing he shouldn’t, but too aroused to control himself, Owen began to grind his hips against the table, the friction sweet against his throbbing cock.
Oh shit, I’m going to come. I have to. I have to.
All at once Mistress Sylvie’s fingers were withdrawn. Owen heard the soft, snapping sound of latex and realized she must have been wearing finger cots, which she’d now removed.
He was distracted from his thoughts by a sharp smack on his ass and the cracking sound of flesh on flesh resounding in the air. The pain counteracted his urge to orgasm.
“You. Will. Control. Yourself.” Each word was a sentence unto itself, punctuated with a strong, open-handed smack against Owen’s stinging ass.
“Turn over.” Mistress Sylvie’s tone was brusque, all the teasing sweetness gone.
Owen did as he was told, ashamed at his lack of control a moment before. Mistress Sylvie looked into his eyes, her expression stern. “I imagine you think I forgot your transgressions from last week. Now you have compounded your sins. You are a very, very naughty boy who needs to be punished.”
Owen’s cock was standing rigidly at attention. Hardly a boy at thirty-nine, he couldn’t deny the thrill her words engendered. And really, she was right. In terms of his fledgling submissive exploration, he was in fact just a boy, untried and inexperienced, but aching for discovery with all the ardent passion of youth.
Reaching down, Mistress Sylvie grabbed Owen’s flag pole of a cock and squeezed. She stared into his eyes and Owen stared back, unable to look away. “You are entirely too focused on your own pleasure,” she informed him. “Now it is time to focus on the pain. Since it is your cock that you seem unable to control, it is your cock that must be punished.”
Owen was breathing fast, too fast. His cock throbbed against Mistress Sylvie’s cool fingers. When she gripped his balls with her other hand, Owen closed his eyes, trying to think about boring things like his grocery list and the bills that needed paying. He knew if he came now, he’d ruin everything.
Mercifully, Mistress Sylvie let him go before he crossed a line of no return. “Get up and crawl to the carpet. Kneel there and hold out your wrists.”
She walked toward the toy table while Owen scrambled
to obey. He moved as quickly as he could on his hands and knees toward the square of carpet in the center of the room. He knelt, hastily wiping away the droplet of pre-come that had formed at the tip of his cock.
Mistress Sylvie came toward him with his leather cuffs in her hand. “Wrists.” Owen held out his arms, allowing Mistress Sylvie to lock the leather cuffs in place.
“Stand up,” she ordered.
Owen obeyed.
“Arms over your head.”
Owen looked up as he lifted his arms, noticing the two chains hanging from the beam directly overhead. Mistress Sylvie brought over a small stepladder and, slipping out of her high heels, climbed to the top. She reached for Owen’s right wrist, using the double-sided clip to secure him to the chain. She did the same to the left wrist, pulling his arms taut in the process.
Climbing down from the stepladder, Mistress Sylvie slipped her dainty feet back into the stiletto heels. Leaning close to Owen, she brushed his ear lightly with her lips. He could smell her scent—a hint of spicy perfume, sweet soap and pure woman. His ear tingled where her lips had touched it and a part of him wanted to be free so he could take her into his arms and crush her lips with his.
And yet, the hot, powerful thrill of being bound in leather and chain, naked before his Mistress, far exceeded any desire for a traditional romance. He was where he wanted to be—where he needed to be—at this moment. Mistress Sylvie confirmed this as she said, “Are you ready for your punishment?”
Owen’s lips parted but no words came.
Strong fingers closed around his balls and squeezed. Owen winced, letting out a hissing breath. The fingers gripped tighter, pulling a groan of pain from Owen’s lips.
“Direct question, boy. Answer me!”
“Yes, Mistress,” he gasped.
Mistress Sylvie let go of his balls, but a split second later she slapped his face hard with her other hand. Owen reared back in surprise, jerking hard against his wrists cuffs, his cheek stinging from the sudden, unexpected blow.
Mistress Sylvie stepped back, her green eyes flashing. “Don’t make me ask you things twice. You will need a lot of training if you are to become worthy of my attentions. Do you think you are worthy of my time?” She cupped his balls and Owen winced in anticipation of her grip, but this time her touch was gentle, caressing.
The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey Page 3
