At some point in the middle of my task, the master began to paddle my ass with wood—spoon, hairbrush, slat? I wasn’t sure what he used. But it was hard and nasty, making my ass sweltering hot, and more deeply bruised the longer he rained his blows on my behind. He then pressed my nose to the carpet, pushing it into the fibers. “Shall we try again, slut?” he wondered aloud.
“I’m so sorry, sir. Yes, I would like to try.”
He fingered my cleft, assuring himself that was I was adequately aroused and wet between my legs. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t leaking cum juice down my thighs. Maybe my body is just a sucker for pain. I don’t know what makes me wet, but I certainly didn’t enjoy the feel of wood smacking my behind—especially that day.
After completely embarrassing me in front of the crowd and Preston—he shooed me off to find him another drink. When I returned with his martini, I spotted Preston again briefly. He took quick note of me, eyeing me with a critical stare I’d become accustomed to—which made me quake like a sad child, praying for rescue. I should have known better. At his side was his little ‘subbie’, all frail and sweet and innocent looking. I envied her. The pain of my jealousy made my body ache far beyond the physical blows I’d just received.
I suffered in silence as I made a table of my back for the master’s drink. Blinding myself to my surroundings, I focused solely on completing the assignment. I didn’t shake. I didn’t falter. Not even the slightest quivering in my muscles betrayed the intense feeling of abandonment, loss and grief I felt inside. I suppose the situation made me irrational. I worried that the scene was more than a game, perhaps even a transfer in ownership. But I didn’t want this burly beast, I wanted Preston and the life he’d given me the last eight months.
The night wore on rather uneventfully. The brute master—we were never actually introduced and I never learned his name—wanted me for little more than a pedestal, or a plaything at his disposal. While other submissives were off to the basement dungeons, or tiptoeing behind their masters to the bedrooms in the second story of the house, I remained in the great room with this pompous fellow. After I successfully held his drink until he was finished with it, I then sat on my knees, resting my ass on my legs. Occasionally his hand reached out and fingered my hair. He would absently stroke my face or tweak a tit—all gestures of ownership. These little things scared me even more. What if? What if Preston had given me away for good?
From where I knelt at this master’s side, I could see into the foyer of house, where the big staircase rose gracefully to the second story landing. I could see much of the comings and goings that night. There was little else to do but observe, and the activity was enough to keep me interested. I wondered about the pairings of masters and slaves, some seemed strange, but intriguing, and I pretended that I could peek inside the scenes and guess what happened in their private time. My musing helped to pass the endless hours, while the man at my side continued to talk nonstop about subjects that bored me. I figured the night was about licked, my stint nearly over, when abruptly my deliberations regarding the houseguests got personal and frightening. I watched in horror as Preston, with his hand on his little subbie’s round buttocks, led her up the stairs to the second floor. My gut clenched in panic. And then suddenly I didn’t care anymore what he did with her—fuck her or abuse her—it was too much. I wanted out. For sixty seconds it took every force of will I had to keep from bolting the room. I managed to hang on, but probably only because the master, at long last, stood up, lifting me by the hair as he did. He hauled me upstairs to a private room.
Once we entered the bedroom, he tossed me to the bed, and ordered me to my hands and knees. Tearing away his clothes, he moved in behind my ass, and plunged his erection deeply in my rectum. I suppose he greased the opening first; although I don’t remember when. I remember only that it didn’t hurt, that his cock slid in easily, and for some really strange reason, he was able to bring me off while he fucked himself to climax. His hands moved over me, caressing me, even mauling me with brutal force. At the same time, his erection claimed that dark territory of my body with greater erotic passion than I’d experienced from any man. I came screaming, while he came screaming, with pleasure pouring over me like a stinging shower of rain.
I should never have given him the satisfaction of seeing me come. I worried later that it was a tactical blunder. But then, maybe it made no difference what I did. I wasn’t in charge. It wasn’t my game. I had no say in my fate.
Later that night, the big man gave me to a couple of other men for simple fucks. But again it was only my ass that got used. No one touched my cunt, as if I were some sacred vestal virgin and it wasn’t yet time to break me in, as if Preston was saving that for himself. No one ever explained, and I didn’t have the nerve to ask.
I didn’t see Preston or his subbie again, not during the long hours of my sleepless night, or in the morning, when the group gathered again for brunch. Later in the day, my Dom of the hour released me and sent me home.
Chapter Ten
After my night at North Street, my relationship with Preston picked up where it left off—with some notable changes, however. He still came to me in the evening, but rather than my just giving him blowjobs, he began to use me sexually. He started with my rear entrance, fucking me as so many men had before him. These sessions left me physically restless, because I never climaxed with him inside me. It seemed that something was missing, especially since I came so easily, so explosively, with that other master.
On other nights, Preston would order me to come, then watch me masturbate while casually standing some distance away—aloof and dispassionate. At first, I hated this intrusion into my private world. But then, weeks later, I silently begged for the privilege of exposing my rapacious lust. Coming got easier in his presence, soon the only way I wanted to get off. Sometimes, he ordered me to come, but left the apartment before I even began. Then I would close my eyes and imagine us together in bed. Other nights, he refused me entirely after he’d pleasured himself. He told me sternly with a warning in his voice, that I could never lie to him, so I’d better not try. On other occasions during my workday, he would order me to his office, or come to my cubicle and watch me masturbate myself. Sometimes, he chose to get me off himself. I would bend over his arm, or the edge of his desk, or just touch my knees with my sex exposed, while he fingered the folds of my pubis, my labia and clitoris. A few times, he ordered me into the unisex bathroom just outside our office, where I was forced to strip and masturbate. If no one was in the restroom, he’d stand at the stall door and watch. Afterwards, he abruptly left, while I scrambled back into my clothes. I don’t think there was any logic behind these moments; they were simply exercises in control. I never failed him, though. I never had to; my sexual desire was raw and waiting for expression, always waiting for Preston to define it.
Regardless of how easy it became to come with him near, it still disturbed me that I couldn’t come with him inside my ass, the way I’d come with that other man. What did that say about my feelings for him? What did that say about us? I couldn’t even guess. Maybe I didn’t want to know. I refused to let him be less than I desired him to be.
Yes. I knew he wasn’t perfect, I could see his imperfections clearly—his vulnerability and the way he avoided being intimate, the way he used our sexual games to keep his distance from any affection he might have for me. But that didn’t matter. I was so hooked on the promise of something more than our arrangement that was I was willing to put aside what I understood about his character. I believed that inside him another man was dwelling, waiting to be revived by the right woman from an uneasy slumber.
About the subbie he’d mastered at the house in front of me? My concerns for her were quickly over once his attention returned to me. I was still his, and the girl had gone back to whomever owned her, just as I returned to Preston.
On the other hand, I was not so gracious about the other woman—Susan. Though she disappeared the day I stormed Preston
’s office demanding answers, she returned several weeks later, using the same feminine wiles to lure men, having the same effect on Preston that she’d had before.
I hated her, and curiously, she seemed to despise me as well. Had Preston told her about us, what I meant to him? Good lord, I hoped not! I couldn’t imagine he would—I trusted our secret, even if there were others in the building now privy to our sexual game. The way she treated me suggested that she knew a whole lot more about me than I did about her, and I didn’t like that.
Susan had a swagger when she walked, and a pair of hips that swayed luridly before any man, sensuously, wantonly, luridly—hips not a whole lot different than mine, when I’m in the mood to attract attention. As she strutted about the office in her coy display, the eyes of the men would light with interest. A little flirtatious twinkle followed when she snickered at them, or sidled up to them rubbing her breasts into their sides, while feigning to need their opinion on some business matter. The second time she ruined our office protocol with her blatant exhibition, I learned she was from the London office. Yes, there was a bit of a British accent to her speech; it made her haughty, condescending and smug—an uppity woman the way she used the affectation. She was everything I hated about women on the prowl. The fact that she especially clung to Preston only made me despise her more.
I became suspicious of her plans for him as soon as I saw her in the office, smoozing her way from man to man. She was working on a new ad campaign and needed the input of the partners in the agency, Preston’s input, even though that was not his expertise. As soon as she wriggled in next to him, I wanted to spit in her face. That being unfeasible, my free time was spent finding ways of embarrassing her in front of everyone, most especially Preston.
The more I saw her seductively entangled with the man I wanted, the more desperate I became to even out her advantage over me. Being sexually submissive to a man may jumpstart my sexual engines and make them hum, but in any other matter, and especially this one, my submission was impractical, stupid, and just not my style.
When I spilled honey and tea on Susan’s conference room chair, it was a completely reckless, totally juvenile move. I’d confess that later. But it was the first opportunity I had to get revenge, and I acted impulsively. I had been beside myself for days, green with envy and torn by my suspicions. Preston hadn’t shown up at my apartment for a late night screw in nearly a week and I was frantic for his attention. Anything. Anything at all to show he still cared for me. While I waited for his attention, I imagined him screwing Susan in the cunt nightly, while I languished in bed, afraid to come on my own against his orders. Even more, I was afraid that the night I didn’t keep my promise, he’d show up in my room and know instantly that I disobeyed his orders.
He knew I couldn’t lie to him and so did I.
So… the tea and honey got accidentally spilled on Susan’s chair, and accidentally not cleaned up before she parked her cute little behind in the middle of the mess. I was standing like a dutiful subject at the side of the room watching. She’d been on a verbal roll, teasing and playing with the partners and agents as if they were puppets and she was tugging their strings. I imagined that it was squishy and warm when the honey and dark tea oozed through the fabric of her winter white gabardine skirt, forcing a stain in the cloth that couldn’t be dry-cleaned, couldn’t be washed, couldn’t be swabbed, sponged or wiped away. I watched her bright eyes grow dull and red lipstick smile suddenly vanished. She turned white as a sheet just before she blushed bright red.
“Shit!” she seethed under her breath, as her anger quickly surfaced. She jumped from her seat and looked down at the goop on her chair, realizing only too late that the entire room had a bird’s eye view of her wet behind and the fact that she wasn’t wearing any panties. Enough water had soaked through the white skirt to outline her ass and the crack down the middle. She jumped back around when she saw every eye staring her way. “What the hell? Someone spilled on my chair!”
The meeting adjourned immediately as the red-faced Susan fled to the ladies room. On the way, she barked orders to two secretaries to get her fresh clothes. Later she slunk into her office where she remained out of sight until she could appear again, poised and perfectly groomed in a navy blue suit. The offending chair was hoisted from the room and set in the hallway, tagged with a “Do Not Sit On This Chair” sign, until a maintenance worker could be found to clean the seat.
After the initial moments of horror and instantaneous panic, I retreated to my cubicle to bask in my tiny glory. Of course, I worried that I’d be found out, but that didn’t spare me the jubilation of my successful revenge.
I’m not sure what came over me that day—too much raw power, I suppose. Raw power fueled by jealousy—a dangerous combination.
When I ventured into the outer office that afternoon to pass out a report I’d prepared, no mention was made of the morning incident, and Susan, for once, kept to herself. It seemed I’d avoided suspicion, a fact that only made me more jubilant. At day’s end, I had one last task left, which took me back to the computer room for a visit with Roddy.
“I understand there were some fireworks upstairs this morning?” he opened the conversation with a sly grin.
“Oh, it was a dandy!”
“You there?”
“Right in the room.”
“Did they figure out what happened? I mean who set her up?”
I hesitated only briefly. I would have loved to tell him the truth, but I didn’t trust anyone with the facts. “Set her up? I think it was just an accident.”
“Naw, I don’t think so,” he shook his head, like he knew something that I didn’t.
“And who’s saying it was deliberate?” I inquired, being a little nervous and trying not to show it.
He shrugged. “Just feels deliberate. Pretty woman like her… an office full of secretaries who’d probably like to claw her eyes out… only makes sense, someone was taking advantage of the situation.”
“Humm, maybe so. I never thought about it that way,” I lied. If Roddy could figure out the truth so easily, then everyone else in the office could too. I certainly had hoped it wasn’t so obvious.
“So, you up for some fun?” his voice lowered in a propositioning sort of way. Then he sidled up beside me, intent on turning our exchange into something more personal. At the touch of his hand, a leisurely sensation of lust strolled down my back. I jumped; then my shoulders clenched and I pulled away.
“I know you kinda soured on me a while back. Did I do something wrong?” He moved toward me as I inched back a step or two. He’d have me cornered shortly, if we kept this up.“No,” I shook my head nervously, “nothing’s wrong at all. The sex was fun, I just…” I had to make up something fast. “I just had to ends things. Another guy…”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“And is he still around?”
My body was overloaded, crying at me, screaming for the release I kept denying it.
“Well, yes, kinda.” I smiled. I could feel his cock, telepathically, throbbing, engorged and pressing against his jeans.
He moved closer, running his hand teasingly down my arm. Then the back of his hand moved gently across my breasts, and tips of his fingers longingly grazed over my pubic mound. Mesmerized by the erotic thrill, I couldn’t move. But while my flesh begged for more, I suddenly realized what was happening, and jumped away startled. I was burning up inside. “C’mon, Skye, what’s really keeping you away?”
No. I’d never tell him; he’d never understand. I hadn’t anticipated feeling anything for Roddy, since my recent lust had converged on Preston and no one else. I guess I was wrong about that. Suddenly, without any forewarning, the desire in me for Roddy became as strong and demanding as it had been months before. Maybe it wasn’t real desire. Maybe this was just the denial speaking—I might have screwed any man with an available erection.
And then there was the day itself… my successful revenge gave me power,
igniting flames of sexual desire hotter and more immediate than anything I’d felt in some time. I couldn’t hold them back. My willpower vanished, and with it thoughts of Preston’s rules. Besides, what would it hurt, an anonymous, meaningless fuck with an old flame? Why not?
Unlike me, Roddy wasn’t battling for answers, or looking for justifications to have sex. He was horny and he wanted me. As long as I didn’t push him off, he’d keep trying. He kept it up, I kept resisting. He moved closer, I stepped back. He touched my face, my body quivered… then he touched my cheek… my temple… my lips… and the gnawing in my belly seemed to expand all around me.
“Oh, what the hell!” I finally exclaimed. I hopped up on the desk behind me and spread my legs. “Here, go ahead and have at me.”
“Ooo, naked,” Roddy whispered in awe, as he gazed at my pantiless crotch. I was a better slut than I’d been before, the evidence was clear. The skin across my snatch was smoothly shaven, and where my pubic hair remained, I’d trimmed it close, leaving it soft and invitingly touchable.
Roddy surprised me. Instead of simply fucking me, he stooped down, and moved on my cunt with his mouth, sucking, licking, devouring the purply folds, making the steamy fissure quickly orgasmic. When he came up for air, I moaned because I didn’t want him to stop; it had been such a long time since such delicious sensations had visited my cunt… and I was just that close.
Then, before I could distract him, offering to let him fuck my mouth or ass with his erection—so I wouldn’t feel so guilty afterwards—he opened his jeans to free his cock. In seconds, it knocked at the doorway of my pussy and pushed inside. Except for fingers toying with that sweet spot, and occasionally finding it fucked by someone’s hand or a rubber dildo, my pussy had been barely used since I became my master’s property. Certainly, no cock had entered me since Roddy’s had months—eons, it seemed—before.
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