by Aya DeAniege
That's not saying that a woman should meet a list of requirements that a man has. Unless those requirements are 'clean' and 'sane.' In my experience, many men who have a shopping list that they compare women to are bad news. Nathaniel claimed to have only made up the list to help the Program narrow down the candidates, as their first suggestions were terminally ill men and old women.
So he claimed that he had to narrow it down. But height, weight, and breast size were on there. I think he was just trying to soothe my ego when he said that.
Good thing he matched my shopping list for a man as well.
The door to the room stood open as we approached. The servant made a motion for me to go in but didn't attempt to himself. He stayed on the outside of the door.
Taking a small breath, I crossed the threshold.
Nathaniel's rooms—he had a set of them—were filled with furniture. There was a grand hearth to one side with seating around it. Behind the seating was an ottoman. At the end of the bed was another ottoman. There was even one just sitting across the bedroom from the hearth.
He may have said that he didn't have a playroom, but Nathaniel had set up his bedroom to be a playroom. The ottomans were both furniture and contained toys. They were just high enough off the floor that a woman about my height could kneel and lay her torso across, presenting her backside to Nathaniel.
The one off by itself looked to be oddly positioned, as if Nathaniel hadn't quite decided what to do with that side of the room. I gawked at the oddity of the space for a good while before I heard Nathaniel sigh out.
Turning my attention to him, I expected annoyance. But he was sitting at a desk beside the bed with his back to me. He was still dressed in the suit he had worn to dinner, having not changed after leaving. As I watched, he closed the computer he had been working on and stood, turning towards the door in a fluid motion. He came to a sudden, stiff stop.
Nathaniel eyed me as if I were about to bite him as he moved away from the desk.
“How long have you been there?”
“A minute or so,” I said.
“You need a bell,” he muttered, then sighed again. “When you enter my rooms you are to announce yourself. I am your Sir here.”
“Not Master?” I asked.
I didn't understand a great deal about BDSM at that point but given Patrick's title for Mr. Wrightworth and the other man's reaction to being called 'Master' I guessed that it was the usual title for a Dom. I certainly didn't understand the differences between the titles that Doms gave themselves, or to their submissives.
“Each chooses what they please, Master, Daddy, Sir.”
“Daddy?” I asked, the terror plain in my voice.
“I do not participate in age play,” Nathaniel said.
His words were meant to be reassuring but only creeped me out all the more.
Age play, yes, is a part of the community. We respect their desires and keep our mouths shut if we don't agree to it. There are many who do not understand, let alone agree to, consensual sadomasochism. The only reason the community works is because there is a mutual respect for all kinks.
At that time, however, the idea terrified me. I didn't quite understand what age play was. I thought he meant that a man would play with a little girl, hence my terror.
“Do you understand?” Nathaniel asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Nathaniel crossed the distance between us and had his hand on my throat before I realized he was moving at all. The hand tightened as he lifted my face ever so slightly. Terror gripped me, and then my world became smaller. The only thing that existed was the man whose hand was around my throat.
And he knew it.
“Yes, what?” Nathaniel asked.
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
My voice betrayed me, trembling as I tried to be strong. I had seen Nathaniel working out. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that the hand on my throat was a threat, and that he was capable of following through on the silent threat. In response to the tremble, Nathaniel's hand tightened. Not gripped enough to cut off my air, but almost there.
He held me there, waiting for me to protest.
I don't break that easily.
When no protest was voiced, Nathaniel pulled away from me. His face was a mask of stillness as he took another step back, hands sliding into his pockets. The man seemed to hesitate. For only a moment the mask slipped away, and I saw his resolve harden.
Everyone knows masks hide the true self. What I didn't know was what was going through Nathaniel's mind as he watched me. It could have been good or bad, but there was no way for me to know without his speaking first. The silence drew on for a very long time. At some point, I began to suspect that he was watching for any fidget or motion to indicate what I was thinking about the situation.
“There's something I need you to do for me,” he said finally.
“What do you require of me?" At the last moment, I remembered the new rule and added, "Sir."
A sudden intake of breath made me flinch. “Say that again.”
“What do you require of me, Sir?” I asked once more, thinking he wanted me to repeat the question properly.
“No, you said it differently before,” he muttered.
The pair of us watched each other for a long moment. I took a small breath and decided to try again. I understood that I was there to please him. In his rooms, that sounded to me like I had to obey everything. That meant trying until I did whatever it was that he wanted me to do.
“What do you require of me, Master?” I asked, trying my best to sound subservient.
Nathaniel shivered at the different title. “Almost, but never call me Master again.”
Had I had that tone the first time I had spoken? I believed that if Nathaniel wanted me to be subservient, he should have simply told me what he wanted of me, then offered something in exchange.
What I wouldn't do to have that fire in my belly put out.
As he watched me yet again, the words spilled out, “Look, I'm tired,” before I realized what I was saying.
I wasn't irritable because I was tired. I was annoyed because I had spent the day in a cloud of sexual frustration and then he had dismissed me. Only to call me to attend in his room and then to stare at me, and then what? Nothing? To blather at me?
I didn't like being pulled in and just stared at. I didn't like not knowing what was being expected of me.
There had to be firm rules and expectations. I had to know what was going on and how it was going to happen. Otherwise, I became anxious about what was going on, feeling completely out of place.
And at that time I hadn't yet participated in a scene.
Nathaniel looked down, then back up and met my eyes. “You aren't putting weight on your good leg.”
“And?” I asked.
“When you're tired, you shift the weight off of your bad leg," Nathaniel responded quietly. "When you feel self-conscious you shift weight onto your bad leg, which is what you just did.”
Suddenly very self-conscious I shifted my weight onto both my legs and just stared at Nathaniel. Mr. Wrightworth had said that Nathaniel would be able to read me like an open book, but I didn't understand how he could have known that.
“You do it to test the leg before you take flight, to see if you need to fight or if you can flee. I've seen you do both. During neither does your leg bother you."
“How?” I asked with a shake of my head.
“The slums are under video surveillance. There isn't a shadow for anyone to hide in. I wasn't being creepy necessarily, I was looking into you and your leg so that I could see the limitations before pushing you beyond them. You like to hide the pain that you do feel, but the way you stand, even when you put your weight on both feet like you are now, shows that it's aching."
“Has been all day, it's the workout,” I said.
“And that workout will help, but you need to stick with it,” Nathaniel said, looking down to consider his own feet. When he looked ba
ck up, he met my eyes. A chill ran through me as those cold green eyes locked with mine. “What I'm going to ask you to do tonight is going to cause you some discomfort, perhaps even pain given how recently you began working out.”
“Pain is the point, isn't it?” I asked.
“No, it's not the point, which is why I had hoped to put this off a little while longer,” Nathaniel said quietly. “But I find I cannot help myself.”
The main difference between him and Mr. Wrightworth was always that Nathaniel did not always need to cause pain to enjoy himself. There were times where Nathaniel preferred not to cause pain at all.
One was a sadist. The other was simply labelled sadist by proximity.
Though sometimes Nathaniel was sadistic enough to warrant the title.
In response to his words, I frowned. Nathaniel had a great deal of control. Nothing was outside of his grasp. I didn't understand how he could have lost control over something.
“I want you to kneel for me.”
Did he lose control because of me?
The act of kneeling hurt my leg after lengths of time. When sitting for long hours made me limp, kneeling had been suggested instead and that just hurt more.
Still, I sunk down as I met Nathaniel's eyes. I well understood that it was that moment in the gym which had caused this to happen. My heart beat a little harder at the idea. My actions had caused this. I was what had caused this.
I can elicit a reaction. I can control him.
Nathaniel stepped up to me, his hands still in his pockets. I stared up at him, amazed that my fetching a cap had put this thought into his head.
My breath hitched in my throat as he stared down at me.
“I am your Sir,” he said.
“You are my Sir,” I repeated back.
At no point did Nathaniel ever say that he owned me. He didn't like the idea of literally owning a person, even though he technically did.
No, what he liked to say was, “You are mine.”
It's a term that never meant ownership to me. Being someone's was different than being owned by them. The first time hearing those words, I couldn't help but feel like they were laden with a promise that I didn't understand.
As he spoke, Nathaniel reached down and caressed my cheek. The long fingers grazed over the side of my face and along my jaw, leaving a trail of suddenly cold flesh. His fingers hesitated on my chin, holding my face upward. I maintained his gaze for a moment. When I glanced away, the fingers drew my face back to him.
I reached for his pants.
Who was stupid enough to not know what a man wanted when he asked someone to kneel? It was an act that I had done before and was relatively comfortable with.
Though the men I had coupled with in the past were nowhere near Nathaniel's size. I reached up to his belt, pulling it open. Nathaniel's fingers hesitated on my cheek, making me look up even as my fingers found his zipper. When our eyes locked, I pulled down gently. Nathaniel's breath hitched in his throat as his member sprang eagerly from the confines of the fabric.
I finally looked down and came face-to-face with Nathaniel's manhood. I just had to stare at it for a moment. I was used to boys who said they were six inches, but in reality were more like three. The way Nathaniel had spoken of himself when I had first laid eyes on it made me think that he believed it to be below average.
He wasn't lying when he said it grows!
I wasn't certain I could fit enough of him into my mouth for it to count as pleasurable. Some women had claimed to be with men of extraordinary size, so I had heard stories of how to handle someone of a certain length.
None of them had mentioned anything about girth.
“What?” Nathaniel asked.
“Does. Is ...” I struggled with how to word my question.
“What's wrong with my size?” Nathaniel asked.
“I'm not sure you're going to fit,” I said to Nathaniel's member, then looked up and met his eyes.
Nathaniel smiled. “Oh.”
“I'm sorry, do—Do women complain about this being small?” I asked, jabbing a finger at the accused piece of flesh. “Because,” I grasped it with my hand boldly, “my fingers barely touch. I'm pretty certain—”
And then I had a terrifying memory of eating a cucumber whole as the men I worked with gaped at me. I knew at least some would fit, and I was suddenly embarrassed because I only then understood why they had suddenly decided my lunch was more interesting than theirs.
I leaned forward and licked the tip experimentally. It twitched in response. The lick was meant to get a grasp on the size, comparing cucumbers to penises, if you will. At the twitch, I had the most devilish idea. I leaned in just ever so slightly and licked again. Then again. At each lick, Nathaniel twitched.
“It's not a lollipop,” Nathaniel growled.
“Have you ever watched me eat a popsicle?” I asked, my face near enough to him to feel the heat of his bare flesh.
Looking up at him, I saw the slight widening of his eyes and the red colouring that came into his cheeks. I knew then that he had done the creepy stalker thing through my history, but I revelled in it. I revelled in the reaction that I drew out of him.
Summers were hot, and popsicles could be made with any fruit, juice, sugar, or even tea. They were the only thing made to be oversized, the only thing we could be greedy about. Those popsicles were not nearly the size of Nathaniel. However, once I learned about sex and what men craved before marriage, I had begun to run off with my popsicles and practice my technique.
That, too, gave me some foundation as to what to do with a man of Nathaniel's ... stature.
I took Nathaniel in my mouth and then took in as much as I dared. My right hand wrapped around him, only a little annoyed that my fingertips could barely meet.
That will be inside me.
Nathaniel's hands around the back of my head and tangled in my hair. He brought me forward until I resisted, testing my limits.
I used my hand and tongue to work over Nathaniel's member. The man made a small sound at the back of his throat. His hands remained tangled in my hair, gripping tighter. One pulled free and moved down the side of my face, wrapping around my throat.
“Oh, yes,” Nathaniel groaned as I continued.
By that point, I was trying not to think about how long it was taking. I wondered if I was doing it wrong. Growing up with men who claimed to be God's gift to women meant that such action took a minute, but little more than that.
“No, don't stop, you're not doing badly,” Nathaniel said, the hand in my hair pressing me forward. “Oh yes, I'm going to come.”
Who announces that?
Nathaniel.
Nathaniel announces that about ten seconds before he does just as he said he would. Even though he had told me it was going to happen, I didn't expect it. And certainly not with that force. I ended up choking and coughing but had the good grace to turn my head and cough on the rug instead of Nathaniel's feet. As I stopped coughing, Nathaniel crouched down and drew my face towards him.
“Thank you, you did marginally well,” he said in that deep voice of his. It flustered me to not receive better praise, but I didn't get the breath in time to protest. “Next time you will swallow.”
Maybe if his seed hadn't hit the back of my throat with such force, I wouldn't have ended up choking on it.
“Go wash your face,” Nathaniel said, motioning to the bathroom.
I struggled for a moment, only to have Nathaniel help me to my feet. He held me steady for a moment before he released me and looked me up and down. I looked away and then moved quickly to the bathroom, afraid of what I would see if I met his eyes.
In the bathroom, I closed the door.
Only to have Nathaniel pull it back open.
“Door stays open,” he said, then walked away.
Startled, I stared at the open door. In the slum everything was public. Most of the stalls didn't even have doors on them. Standing there, just inside the bathroom with Na
thaniel waiting in the other room for me?
I felt awkward suddenly.
Ever so slowly, I bent and turned on the taps to wash my face. There wasn't much on my face in the end. I had coughed outward, not on myself. Knowing that, I looked down.
There was a splash of it, a spot, just above the white embroidery. The black background didn't exactly help matters. It seemed to make things all the worse.
Everyone fantasizes about nice, clean sex. But sex can be messy. That really is part of the fun.
I was, however, wearing a dress more expensive than anything I had owned before, and I had just gotten something on it that I was pretty certain would stain it.
“Oh man,” I muttered under my breath.
“Don't worry about the dress,” Nathaniel called from the outer room.
“I have to pee,” I called in response.
“The door stays open,” he said sternly.
Mouthing a curse, I moved to the toilet and sat to relieve myself. Despite the fact that I did have to go to the bathroom, I had difficulty. Years of going to the bathroom with others standing in line, and even watching me, yet suddenly I had trouble.
Eventually, I managed the job and stood. After washing my hands, I remembered to flush the toilet. Rich folk flushed every time they went to the bathroom. In the slums, we only did when necessary to save on water.
Walking back into the bedroom, I was surprised to find Nathaniel standing by the bed. He had stripped off his shirt and belt, draping them over the ottoman standing off by itself in that awkward area. The blankets on the bed had been pulled back and down, revealing cream coloured sheets and matching pillows.
His hand was on one of the bedposts as he watched me walk out of the bathroom.
“You will strip off the dress and lay face down on the bed,” Nathaniel said.
I wanted to—and almost—asked why.
I caught myself at the last moment and said instead, “Yes, Sir.”
