by Debra Hyde
Tara pulled something toward Reese—a medical utility table. L lifted her head and strained to see what it carried, but Tara deliberately blocked her view. L sighed again, this time in resignation. Whatever Cassandra planned, she would have to wait for it to unfold.
Cassandra stood opposite Reese, the utility table between them. Quinn watched from her place to L's right. Positioned, Cassandra and Reese went to work. Reese ripped open a small packet and pulled a toilette from it—an alcohol wipe, standard medical issue. He wiped her clit and labia, his moves mimicking those of his inspection the previous weekend.
“The taper,” Cassandra ordered, her hand open, palm ready to receive. Reese opened a miniature ziplock bag and removed its sterilized contents, handing it over to Cassandra.
Cassandra did not so much as glance L's way, but her sure and confident touch conveyed a certain gentleness, one that suggested reverence and meaning, all concentrated at the very spot just cleaned. L sighed, remembering the day Quinn had helped her remove the jewelry that had once adorned her, the day she had wiped clean the slate of her body. Finally, Cassandra would lay claim to it. L closed her eyes against welling tears of joy.
Probing and pushing forward, the taper found its way into the minuscule hollow of her clit hood piercing. It did not hurt as it tunneled through her flesh, nor did L strain as she felt it glance over her clit. Instead, it teased pleasure from hiding, beckoned arousal into the open, and made L's body come alive.
Oh God, Cassandra. Put your finger there. Let me feel it.
Then, a miracle: a fingertip pressed. And L almost came on the spot. A tremor—sudden, delicious, and transporting—shot through L. She gasped. Then, bliss: the weight of that fingertip against the burgeoning fount of desire.
Oh yes—please!
But no: L was not destined to come. Instead, she suffered the tease of denial as Cassandra lifted her finger.
“Jewelry, Reese.”
L felt the juncture of jewelry and taper, felt the taper slide free as the jewelry took its place. Twisting manipulations followed. A ring, L realized, anchored.
She wanted to see it and pushed against the bondage, but Quinn put a hand to her throat. She would have to wait.
Cassandra had turned from the table toward the rest of the room.
“The woman you knew as Liv is now mine. She is to be called L and only L. She is my property and no longer free to play as she wishes. All requests for access must go through my faithful servant, Reese, and I will decide whether or not to grant your request.”
L was spoken for.
While she closed her eyes again against renewed tears, her friends continued the scene's business. Tara pushed the utility table and Quinn freed L from her bonds, patting her arm gently in approval when the last rope fell free. Reese handed Cassandra a length of leather, but L discovered its purpose only after Cassandra clipped it to her new jewelry—a leash!
“Come,” Cassandra commanded.
A tug on the leash and L sat up. But before she could look at the jewelry, a second tug pressed her into action. She slid off of the table and stood before her mistress. Reese wrapped a long, concealing cape over her. This, then, was how L would leave Hippolyte's: naked beneath the thick drapery of a cloak, her clit hood captured by a new ring, and at the end of a leash clipped to that jewelry.
A third tug pulled L into motion. Heart pounding, she followed Cassandra, marked and owned, and now spoken for. Around her, gasps and murmurs erupted.
Later, in Cassandra's bed, Cassandra allowed her a look at the jewelry. Like her peers, she gasped. Where once her gold ring rested, new gold sat. A larger-gauge ring, but it had to be. It had to be weight-bearing. It held a round gold charm, smaller than the one that had temporarily adorned her breast. But like that charm, in its center and clear for all to see, was the letter C.
Chapter Thirteen: Discoveries
That night, their naked bodies twined, Cassandra made love to L in ways L never anticipated. Their bodies magnetic and energized, they left all the sexual accoutrements of dominance, submissive, and sadomasochism behind. Hands free and amazed by the sheer magnanimity of it, L pleasured her mistress at will. She roamed across the body of the woman who had publicly claimed her just hours before, with an access she never, as a submissive, dared consider possible. And when Cassandra parted L's legs and reciprocated, when she coaxed that newly jeweled prize, stunned bliss overtook L, first in astonishment, then in a tremulous orgasm. True to passion's course, they kept at it until they exhausted themselves.
When sleep beckoned, they answered it, their bodies spooning, Cassandra against L. But L found she could only feign sleep. She lay quietly, Cassandra's slumbering breath against her neck, the woman's warm body buttressing her, the dead weight of an arm pinning her in place.
No, this was not what she expected. She had come to always imagine Cassandra on top, definitively directing every cadence of her movements. She had not expected reward in the form of egalitarian lovemaking.
Lovemaking. Not “scening,” not play. But two people striving toward shared ecstasy. She had tasted it before, that morning at Sunderland when Cassandra had puppeted her in bed, but tonight was different, fuller—whole and unencumbered.
Suddenly, L recognized what Cassandra had given her: consummation.
Profound realization pitted her stomach, forced a lump into her throat. Once, she would've sought love over all else. But when Karen left, L had chosen the path of a free-ranging switch—and she had grown used to it. Even when she first slid into submission under Cassandra's magic, consummation was the furthest thing from her mind.
Which makes it all the more special.
A gift then, one that went against the grain of dominance and submission. It played against type, maybe even subverted roles. But it was genuine and L could not deny how much she now wanted it. She shifted onto her back, sliding under Cassandra's shoulder, her mistress's arm coming to rest on her stomach. How long had she done without that? Forever, it seemed.
And now I have it.
She turned her head and watched Cassandra sleep, wondering how she could ever forgo such closeness and its reward ever again. Sleep eventually claimed L, but not before her mind wandered into the imagined: her ankle, cuffed and chained to the foot of the bed. Or her hands bound overhead to the bedpost. Or Reese in her spot, beside Cassandra, and L moved to a dog bed in the corner. Meandering thoughts, but they soon found the descent of sleep. Too soon, it ended and L woke to find herself gazed upon, then delicately kissed. Cassandra's lips were soft, soothing, full of the appreciation one lover gives to another. At its end, Cassandra murmured. “You were delicious last night. I hope I did you well.”
She pulled L to her and nuzzled against her neck. She planted a soft kiss there as well, touching a ticklish spot known only to L until L shuddered, her reaction betraying the exquisite spot.
“Yes,” L answered in a breathless whisper. “You were wonderful.
Are wonderful,” she amended.
Cassandra sat up, propped pillows behind her, and cuddled L against her. “Good. It's been a long time since I last did that.”
L admitted the same. “It was so long ago for me that I forgot how wonderful it could be.” She felt Cassandra nod in agreement, then the captivating touch of her hand lightly stroking her back.
“I trust,” Cassandra continued, “that you understand I'm pretty rusty with this relationship stuff. When you came into my life, you turned me upside down as much as I did you.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Cassandra paused, pondering. “I thought ‘well, if she can pass my tests, then I'll know Reese was right.’ That it was time to give up pretty little women for someone of experience and substance. What I didn't know was how breathless you'd leave me.”
Cassandra wrapped her arms around L, her embrace strong and confident. “And I didn't expect how your bravery would affect me.”
“Really? How?” L whispered. She kept her head against Cassan
dra breast, certain that if she looked her in the eyes, her own would well with tears.
“Your courage engaged me. In all my previous relationships, whether they were attempts at love or not, I hid part of myself behind my dominance. Sometimes, it protected me—like with Cur's defection. But too often, it kept me from the very thing I sought.”
Cassandra slid a hand to L's chin and tipped her gaze upward. There, in Cassandra's eyes, she saw honesty, transparent and pure.
“I love you, L.”
She spoke the words as if nothing truer had ever happened to her, and L, her own heart bursting, let escape two tears, one for each of them, as she returned the sentiment in kind.
Love's lingering faded as the day wore on and soon gave way to the conquest of impromptu lust. Perhaps L's nakedness in the light of day inspired it or maybe remnant thoughts from the previous night had, but lust took hold in the afternoon and refused to let go. Half-dressed herself, Cassandra grabbed L by the scruff of her neck and forced her to her knees. There, while whimpering over the force of the hand that clenched her, L heard a zipper open and the sound of fabric and fishing about. She wasn't surprised when Cassandra forced her to her crotch, but when she met nose-first with a hard dildo, she gasped.
And accepted its intrusion. Muffled, she moaned. Then gagged as the dildo shoved deep, then retreated.
“You've tasted dyke cock before, haven't you?” queried Cassandra
Her mouth full, her lips stretched wide, L could only grunt in the affirmative.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
L complied, then felt Cassandra's hips buck. Strapped in place, the dildo furthered its claim.
Cassandra moved at a steady pace, fucking L's face just fast enough to be the boss of the blowjob, just rough enough to send L into shuddering surrender. Against C's rhythm, L had no chance to lick and none to suck. But it hardly mattered. Slipping into submission, L existed for the moment. She was mouth. Receiver. Thing. Despite this meagerness, her own lust flared, ready and anticipating Cassandra's next move.
Cassandra clenched L's hair, pulled her from the dildo, and forced her backward. “On your back.”
L rolled into place, her hands losing their clasp briefly, bracing her against the floor, before rejoining. Cassandra followed, pinning L with the full sprawl of her body and forcing her legs apart. Rigid silicone poised itself, positioned to take her. A hand pushed L's head to one side, teeth found the flesh of her neck, and when the bite bore down and took hold, the shaft drove home.
L's body engulfed it, its appetite fierce and forceful. Her labia rippled with arousal as the cock began its pursuit, deliciously tingling each time Cassandra pulled back. Her nipples, pinched hard, buried beneath Cassandra's generous, smothering breasts, ached. Her toes curled, euphoric in the face of so much stimulation.
Sensation inundated L: Cassandra's crushing, inescapable weight. The hand hard upon her turned face, squashing thought and motion alike. The cock driving hard, its pace now punishing; her cunt, its hungry complement. Her shoulders burned from the strain of her hands, still clasped, still beneath her, load-bearing against Cassandra’ fierce battering. The bite clung to her, bruising and burning, its sting so severe, so sharp that it seemed relief could only come when skin broke and bled.
And had she the capacity for words, L could have begged for more.
L became a mad cacophony of passion, want, and bodily zeal. Overrun, she reached toward ecstasy, her back arching, her soul aching. She needed to crest, to come. She needed release. Yet the pinnacle eluded her. Again, she reached for it and again she failed; a third time too. Weakened and defeated, she lost the quest.
But Cassandra felt L sag to the floor, the glorious arch in her back gone. She pulled out and rolled from L like an acrobat. One hand returned to L's face and resumed its objectifying hold; the other flew to her mound, found her clit, and encouraged what fucking failed to accomplish.
“You will come,” came the command, its tone denying any other possibility. If words could not wholly convince L, deft fingers did. Cassandra worked L's clit as determinedly as she had plumbed her depths, and L rose again, her body primed and receptive. Her cunt tightened in the crescendo. L reached for release, for ecstasy.
Suddenly, fingernails dug into L's cheek and the intrusion pushed L over the edge. Ambushed, she cried out. Her cunt throbbed in hard contractions, her overstimulated body shuddered, and it felt like her very soul gasped and surrendered. A grander zenith, L could not fathom, and in the slide from its height, her opiating orgasm left her dumb and nearly senseless.
Until she detected a sudden presence: a scent, strong and unmistakable. Cabochard.
Its appearance shocked L from her lethargy. Where had it come from? Had she missed its presence before orgasm? Unthinkable!
The hand that held her down went from captor to comforter and now stroked her hair. Whispers congratulated her. She had done well. But L could only mouth her wonder and only through a single word: “Cabochard.”
“No, L, no Cabochard. I'm not wearing any perfume.”
L's eyes shot open. Confused, she sat up, mumbling an indistinct “What?” Cassandra met her with a gentle, indulgent smile. “Sometimes, our senses fool us.” She shrugged. “Maybe, though, that makes it all the more a miracle.”
She took L in her arms and into a long, lingering kiss, a gesture so pure, so magnificent that L yearned to be suspended in it, and in the scent, forever.
But sweet limbo, however sincerely desired, is not a thing of this world. The sheer suspension that brings one near to it cannot last. The kiss ends, wonder lessens, and, like a leaf gently falling to the ground, sensation dissipates. Too soon, the thrill that coursed through one's veins fades. The body relaxes, the blood no longer pounding in exhilaration. Too soon, normalcy returns.
Even for L.
Cassandra left her, well-used as she was, on the floor, claiming she needed to attend to other concerns. “You're to remain here, upstairs,” she told L as, her pants down, she unbuckled the strap-on, pulled it off her hips, and tossed it on the bed. “However, you are free to look around. Entertain yourself as you see fit.” She hitched her pants back into place, fetched a sweater from a dresser drawer, and finished dressing. When she left, she left the bedroom door remained open as if to reiterate the freedom.
L remained on the floor, still and unmoving, until Cassandra's footsteps reached the first floor and faded away. Then, she took a deep cleansing breath, let its relaxing effects wash over her, and sat up.
She did not know what to do with herself.
L had become so adept at following Cassandra's commands—and Cassandra had always kept her occupied enough—that she did not know how to fill the time in Cassandra's domain on her own. L rose, wandered toward the bed while casting about for something to catch both her eye and her curiosity.
She would not find it until she opened the blanket chest at the foot of Cassandra's bed. There, she saw the photo album lying atop the linens. She had found her objet d'intérêt.
Liv felt a pang of guilt, taking the album from hiding. She wasn't one to rifle through a hostess's bathroom medicine cabinet during a party and hated that kind of tacit, socially acceptable nosiness, but a cat like curiosity had her. And Cassandra had given her free rein to the upstairs.
The album had heft, reminding L of an old family Bible. If memories could be weighed, she thought, then Cassandra's must be the fortune of solid gold. Curling up with it, L wondered what memories the book held. The entire passage of Cassandra's life, from her infancy forward? A procession of school photos detailing toothless gaps in childhood smiles? Newspaper clippings of scouting achievements? Of family configurations and gatherings?
No. The album held something far more singular and astonishing: Cassandra's decades as a dominant. As a young woman, unblemished by age—thin, long-hair, and exuberant. Arm in arm with friends, always happy. Always with women. Occasionally, L could decipher who among these captured images were lovers
, some made obvious by kisses or full embraces, other subtly revealed the shared, longing looks. A series of booth-shot photos showed Cassandra hair-pulling and petting another woman in a fierce, forceful kiss. L's breath caught in her throat. She could almost feel its sting in her scalp and the grappling caress. She ached to endure the same.
L found Polaroids interspersed with newspaper clippings. The former: a naked woman. young and voluptuous, her dark hair strikingly butch short. Her expression unmistakably submissive. She knelt, her full breasts welted, her gaze dumbfounded yet euphoric. In another, spread-eagle on her stomach, her back marked by a flogging, her rump and thighs by a cane. Later still, on her back, blindfolded and gagged, dildos protruding from both holes.
The newspaper clippings presented Cassandra as the professional dominant. Most of them came from contact magazines, S/M publications that adult bookstores once carried. Only a few were four-color glossies, but all showed Cassandra in action: Cassandra and another dominant, standing over a hog-tied man, each with a well-heeled foot pressing down on his body, each looking as triumphant as a big game hunter. A series of shots showing Cassandra dominating another woman, the latter looking thoroughly abject as Cassandra forced her into a pillory. A man dressed in pink satin and wearing a blond wig, on all fours, Cassandra on his back, her crop in his mouth like a bridle's bit, Cassandra pulling hard on it.
Yet the professional Cassandra only appeared in clippings, never in the Polaroids. And men never appeared in instant photos, only women. The scenes captured there were always way more intimate and revealing. Far more personal. Without exception, Cassandra had never mixed business with pleasure.
Reese told me the truth, L realized. So the mystery of Cassandra is that there is no mystery.
Then, a startling find: a younger but not youthful Cur in several party pictures. At first, he admires her from afar. In a second photo, he kisses her gloved hand. By the evening's end, he's at her feet, kneeling.
