Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  Back to Scott. The cage swallowed them together. He seemed to rise up between her legs in slow motion. Savannah’s knees jerked in surprise, then convulsed in empty space as Scott let his tongue run the length of her opening as she finished the descent. The magnetic pull at her arms and legs was such that she could now bend a little, with effort, which she repeatedly did as she settled in place before him, and as he went down on her with his mouth and cupped one defenseless breast, still clutching the remote in his other hand.

  All those others, under Malcolm’s direction, had only serviced her, kissing her and licking her nether lips with dainty, reverential delight. But Scott—perhaps not knowing any better—jabbed at her with his tongue, as though he might deflower her with it. His free hand slid down her side. He rocked her back and forth, as much as the magnetism and repulsion would allow. He suckled her cunt, then jabbed at her opening a little more.

  Savannah spoke no words, but she could not remain silent. His efforts were so amateur compared to the others, so exploratory and experimental. She could hardly stand his manly innocence—and then she couldn’t, and with a long, keening wail, she came all over his face, legs vibrating like guitar strings.

  He surfaced, licking his lips, wiping his chin. “Got me,” he said. “Now we’re even.”

  She laughed, glad she couldn’t see her own face, which she was sure was brick-colored at best.

  “Let’s have a more complete look at you,” he said, and before she could ask, or think, How much more complete could you want? he pushed a button.

  Instantly—so fast she felt the rush of wind in her damp hair—she was upright, face-to-face with him. Along the cage, different bars had lit up, different magnetic guides forcing her into the new position without pain. She caught her breath, then let it out again.

  “Gorgeous,” he said, appraising her, running a hand along his evening stubble. “Melody, what do you think?”

  “Are you kidding? I love her.”

  “Me, too,” Scott agreed. “And for more than just her looks. But, you know, this position is a bit vanilla. Too normal. Hold on.”

  He stepped back a pace or two, nearly putting his back to the bars. Then he hit another button—turning her ruler-straight body end over end. “Oh, shit!” she gasped, then cackled, going down headfirst until her ass was in the air, legs still spread, with her eyes looking at the floor and her pendant resting against her forehead. Savannah was faced away from him, couldn’t see what he was doing, but she heard his bare feet close the distance between them again.

  He stroked the inside of her thighs, down and up, down and up. And eliciting another cry of surprise from her, he parted her cheeks. With his thumb and middle finger, ever so gently, he stroked her pussy and asshole at the same time. Savannah’s whole body shivered. Held this way, her pussy juice oozed through her pubis. A little of it even trickled to her stomach.

  Scott, do it. Please. I can’t take much more of this.

  “I want to be your lover and your friend,” he said, fingers working her, “but tonight, here at this party, I want to be something else. I want you to call me what I am to you right now.”

  He slapped her left butt cheek.

  “Ow! I—Scott, I—”

  He slapped her right butt cheek—good and swift, then squeezed the stinging flesh in his hand.

  “Speak the word,” he said, drooling the words in a voice so husky and deep she hardly recognized it, “you lovely thing.”

  “Master!” she cried. “Scott Lachance is Savannah’s master! Savannah is … Master’s toy and plaything.”

  “No,” he said, and hit another button, returning her to her original supine position, but more slowly. And he lowered her—to waist level. “You will never be a toy and a plaything—not to me, not to anyone. You are the best person I know. There are people who don’t believe in love at first sight, but this is it, Savannah. This is it.”

  She nodded, crying. She felt exactly the same way, and was too overwrought to say more.

  “Not a toy,” he said, leaning forward, bending over her, resting his stone cock over her pubic hair, “Not a plaything. But I will be your master tonight. If you don’t say no right now, I’m going to give you every inch of me, straight to the hilt.”

  How have you not done it already? she wondered. Because I’m fucking dying for it over here.

  And, answering herself, He is Master. He controls. To be in control pleases Master.

  She didn’t say no. She didn’t say anything.

  “May I touch it?” he asked. “May I kiss it?”

  But that was confusing. What part of her had he not already—

  “The pendant,” he said. “I won’t damage it, I swear.”

  “Yes,” she said aloud. It was important that she say it so he could hear it, and so she could hear herself, because no one touched that pendant but her—not her dad, not Alisha. No one. But tonight, along with everything else, she’d let Scott touch it. She trusted him.

  The remote lay forgotten on the floor. With both hands he scooped up the tiny thing from the hollow of her throat. Worshipfully, he placed his lips upon it. “Thank you,” he said, and Savannah knew, in that moment, he was not speaking to her. Not to Savannah. “I’ll take care of her,” he said. “The best I can, as long as she’ll have me.”

  Savannah wanted her arms back. She wanted to hug him so bad…

  Gently, he laid the pendant back against her throat. He reached back between his legs, between hers. The tip of his cock parted her folds but didn’t yet penetrate. He rubbed it up and down her, gradually pressing. Savannah heaved in air, shuddered it back out.

  The tip was in. Her vaginal muscles clenched it like a tiny fist. She could feel him, that first part of him, in her.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, eyes shut tight, listening for her answer.

  “Yeah,” she said—but before she could say “Do it,” he’d already done it.

  He thrust into her, yelling out his ecstasy in an inarticulate roar that almost matched her own, born of a moment’s pain and a lifetime’s rush of feeling that would stay with her forever. Her walls parted, and she felt Scott fill her from the inside. In a moment, he’d gone deeper than she ever would have imagined possible. In the quiet times when Alisha was asleep and she wasn’t, when she played with herself at night and wondered what her first time would be like, she’d never imagined there could be nerve endings buried so deep in her core—but they were there, and Scott had found them. He made them sing, made them scream for more.

  This is it, she thought, as he drew back and pushed into her again. She squeezed him from her inside—strongly, reflexively, as though her vagina still felt the need to defend itself, somehow—and made sounds with her mouth she’d never heard herself utter before.

  “Am I hurting you?” he asked, even as he started a slow, poking rhythm on her. “I’ll stop if I’m hurting you.”

  She shook her head. It had hurt—was still a little rough and raw down there—but the pain was easing already. Transforming. Her body oiled them both from the inside, more eager for this feeling now that the first shock was behind her. “Am I hurting Master?” she said.

  “What?” he said. His eyelids fluttered. His eyes looked like they could roll back in his head at any second. “No. Hell, no.”

  “Master will … continue fucking his Savannah … if it pleases…”

  Scott picked up his pace. “Oh, Jesus-God, Savannah, oh, fuck … I never knew anything could feel like this.”

  Me, neither, she thought, wincing, shedding another tear or two, feeling herself blossom under his mastery, his adoration, his loving strength. It was all she’d ever dreamed of for this moment, though far from the circumstances she might have predicted. And, rumor was, the act got easier, even better, with practice and time.

  And still she came, at the same time as Scott. They climaxed together, feeling their worlds collide, explode, and reform in a flash of transcendent pleasure and oneness and love that rattl
ed them both. And in that explosion, Savannah could have sworn she had felt his very soul.

  He passed his hands over her face. And, wow, he was scarlet as an apple. But she’d never seen him so happy.

  He kissed her, just on the lips. She kissed him back the same way.

  And she ventured, “A sub begs her master’s permission to ask a question.”

  Scott regarded her fondly, eyes shimmering with joy. “You may,” he said evenly, eyebrow raised.

  “If it pleases Master, could we do this in a bed next time?”

  Chapter Twenty:

  Dreams

  Scott eased her out of the restraints, cradling her under the back, then led her feet back to the floor of the stage. Behind them, Melody had already gone, but a new line of observers had gathered before the stage without him ever noticing. They were all newbies, former pigs like Savannah and himself, and had presumably never witnessed a Control Globe performance before. They clapped most appreciatively.

  “Uh, that’s it,” he said, shooing them with a polite gesture of dismissal. “You can go now.”

  Savannah blew them a kiss as they departed.

  Out on the floor, most of the action had come to an end, and the work of cleanup had begun. Members of all three castes pitched in equally, calling each other by their real names instead of by titles or epithets, laughing and yawning and chatting—neither giving nor receiving commands—as if an ordinary high school seniors’ ball was wrapping up and not a turbo-powered college-level bondage orgy. Many of the subs, at some point, had evidently retreated to a back room or some other place to change back into their normal clothes. At first, Scott didn’t recognize Missy in her hoodie and her black denim pants, Courtney in her university sweater and skirt.

  “Game over, I guess,” he said, taking her hand again. “Time for me to walk you home, yes?”

  Over at the table where the punchbowls had been, Malcolm now sat in front of a laptop. Before him, a line of initiates had formed, submitting their caste requests. Malcolm took them, offering commentary or critique on each one. “I can see that,” he said to a wannabe Dom, one of the birch volunteers. “Definitely,” he affirmed to a self-declared Neutral. But then, to a second prospective volunteer to the Dominant, he balked. “Really? You may want to think on that. Shoot me an email in the afternoon. If your decision’s unchanged, convince me.”

  Terry and his girlfriend Celia were nowhere to be seen.

  “We’ll play again,” Savannah said, her voice slow and sultry. “But, yeah. Get me the hell out of here.”

  Down the stage steps they proceeded, and out onto the floor. At Malcolm’s direction, on the other end of the table and under it, Melody found a stack of cardboard boxes. She opened them one at a time: blue jeans and tee shirts of various sizes. Those would be for the newbies, as Rusty had promised. A way to walk home without streaking.

  Melody was already half dressed and rummaging through the pants.

  First stop, Scott thought. Boy, am I ever ready to sleep.

  “Maybe,” Savannah said, “we can put our own spin on it next time?”

  “Sure,” he readily agreed. They’d had their basic training—more thoroughly than most—and could now do as they damn well pleased. “You have something in mind?”

  “Nothing major. I like you being in control. Give it our own lexicon of terms, maybe?”

  “Our own secret lovers’ language,” Scott mused. “Savannah, that’s hot.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a self-satisfied smile. “I don’t think we need a whole language, though. I’ve got enough of those rolling around in my head. Just some vocabulary particular to us. Some words to make it ours and not theirs.”

  Scott stopped. “Hold on. Exactly how many languages do you know?”

  “Five—oh, wait, six. Should probably count English.”

  She said it offhandedly, like he’d asked her how many pairs of shoes she kept in her closet.

  “Okay, that’s not intimidating at all.”

  “Shush, you building-builder. Anyway, two of them are mostly dead.”

  “Er, what?” Scott’s brain turned a somersault. “I mean, when—how … under what circumstances is a language mostly dead?”

  “When it’s Latin or Sanskrit. Look, could we move this along to the table? We’re still kind of completely naked. Feeling outnumbered, here.”

  “Right,” Scott said, and started walking again. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  Melody waved them right over, looking for all the world as though it were a perfectly normal night and nothing untoward, unusual, awful, or spectacular had taken place. In her plain white tee and blue jeans, were it not for the crusty wreck of her hair, she could have been in charge of a concession stand.

  “You look like an XL,” she said to Scott. “And that’s a very nice penis you have there, by the way, even when it’s down.”

  You hear that, old boy? Scott thought to it. That’s the third time a woman has said that about you tonight.

  “I, um, appreciate that, Melody.”

  “It’s taken,” Savannah said. “Size medium, please.”

  Melody foraged through the boxes for the right sizes, then laid out a pile of pants for them to try on until they found the right fit. “Don’t forget to see Malcolm before you go,” she said. “And don’t worry. I have a feeling your caste preferences are pretty much guaranteed.”

  “It didn’t slip our minds,” Scott said, starting with pants. “I just need to know where to recover my backpack, if we could get that sorted out. Okay?”

  “Still in the pickup out on the lawn,” Malcolm called out over some heads. “Doors should be open. Good luck—and well-played, both of you. Mad respect.” He held up an open palm, then made devil fingers for a salute, which Scott absently returned.

  Melody appeared positively crestfallen.

  “You’re happy with this, Melody,” Savannah said, disappearing under the shirt, then re-emerging through the neck hole. “Be happy. It’s not for us. I’m sorry.”

  ****

  Pick up, bitch, Veronica willed Tabitha from afar through the screen of her phone. I’m the senior fucking Skull. I could end your world with a word.

  She set the device to speaker, listened to it ring over and over and over. In the last half hour, she’d sent a dozen text messages as well. Tabitha knew—had to know—that Veronica was trying to reach her. Why was she ignoring her? How did she dare?

  She’d already gone to Tabitha’s sorority house and demanded to see her in person. The door warden, who spoke to her through the porch intercom, had been decidedly unimpressed. “It’s two in the morning,” she’d said. “Go away.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Veronica had then tried, glaring up into the camera. “Buzz me the fuck in, and—”

  “I know who you are,” the voice on the intercom had said, wearily. “And I know Tabby even better. Frankly, she scares me a lot more than you do, and she doesn’t want to see you. She said so specifically. Get lost before I page the C.P.”

  Now she was alone out on the Commons at two-thirty in the morning, shivering in her Domme dress on one of the park benches. And still, she let the phone ring, as though testing Einstein’s definition of insanity for herself.

  The answer, when it finally came, arrived in the form of a text reply.

  Tabby: Okay, so, yeah. I was going to wait until tomorrow to do this, but if you must have it now, have it.

  Veronica: About fucking time. You can begin by apologizing for taking so long.

  …, …, …

  Tabby: I’ve been working on an email for the past hour. Got some video attached to it. I’ve addressed it to Professor Krantz, Professor Shusterman, Nurse Sustrick, your mother, your grandfather, current membership—pretty much everyone who’s ever been in The Select and has their email on the server. And I have you in the address line, too, just so you can see what I’ve done to you with your own eyes. But I haven’t sent it yet.

  “What the actual fuck?” Veronica
breathed, unaware she had spoken aloud.

  …, …, …

  Furiously, with new and sudden confidence, she typed back, You’re blackmailing me in a text message, dumbass? Go ahead. Send the email. See what happens. Get yourself expelled. Wow. You must be … like, the most brainless sinkhole of a twat EVER.

  …, …, …

  Tabby: You should be so lucky.

  Veronica’s hands shook. Her new confidence wavered.

  …, …, …

  Tabby: This isn’t blackmail, Ronnie. I’m going to do this no matter what. I’m letting you know as a courtesy. I’m giving you time to prepare.

  Panic. Veronica scrolled back up to make sure she had read right.

  Her mother. Her grandfather.

  Veronica, trying desperately for cool, both in her reply and in herself: Hold on, Tabby. Don’t do anything stupid.

  …, …, …

  Tabby: If things go easy for you, there’ll be a special punishment session after hours at the Night Owl Bar and Grill, as soon as we can arrange it. You’ll report there early. When the others start to arrive, you’ll accompany me to the little green room they have behind the stage. There, you’ll strip off, then present yourself unclothed on stage to The Select. On your knees, you’ll surrender your skull to Malcolm, who will reassign it to someone better than you. And then you will be punished. We will be most thorough in your discipline. You’ve had this coming, Ronnie. Fortify yourself.

  Veronica stared at the screen, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  …, …, …

  Tabby: And that’s if you get off easy. If so, it’ll be good for you. Who knows? You might even get to remain in The Select, after you’ve been properly humiliated and sufficiently chastised. I’ve been waiting for two years to see you squirm and listen to you scream. Dreams do come true, you know. You’re about to prove it.

  Veronica wiped at her eyes, dashing away the liquid frustration and fear. Her mind raced. Stay in The Select? After they punished her—naked, in front of everyone? In front of so many men and women that she had punished in that way? She was mortified beyond belief just thinking about it. The depth of potential shame was bottomless.