by Debra Hyde
Her apartment doorbell rang promptly at seven, from the front door. Its sound made her jump—waiting had tensed her more than she realized—and she breathed deeply before slipping into the hallway. Give me grace, she prayed, hoping to hide her dither enough that it would not forever become Cassandra's first impression of her on home turf.
Thankfully, the door swung open with gentle momentum and a minimum of hinge creaking. There, haloed in light, the dark of night behind her, Cassandra waited. For an instant, the sight struck L as warm and ephemeral, but she knew it was nothing more than the trick of the porch lamp.
“Please,” L gestured, welcoming Cassandra into the hallway. Scent enveloped L as Cassandra passed her, its note familiar yet still magical.
“I assume it's all right to leave my car at the curb?” Cassandra asked.
“Yes, unless you'd like me to move it to the back,” L volunteered. She closed the front door and made for her apartment door, opening it to Cassandra yet hanging back.
“That won't be necessary.”
Cassandra entered and gave L's apartment a once-over glance, then turned to her as L closed the apartment door. She stared, her gaze penetrating and demanding. She need not voice what she wanted.
L understood. Her nakedness was the evening's perquisite. She reached for the buttons of her blouse and, undressing, she shivered as her flesh met air. Not because of any draft but because she was wholly aware of this new threshold, stepping into submission—being submissive—here, in her own domain. L had never envisioned such a possibility. Her home had long been hers and hers alone, a refuge from the outside world. She had not thought far enough forward to realize that sooner or later Cassandra would incorporate this place into her understanding of L.
Or that she herself would welcome it.
Cassandra took a seat on the couch, prompting L to sink to her knees in the same fluid moment. Their movements matched perfectly, a seemingly small thing yet so rare and exquisite that they both knew its choreography would grace them only once in a great while. However dramatic the energy between dominant and submissive, however wild the passion or far-flung the limits, perfection was a matter of countless little moments, briefly achieved and fleetingly short-lived.
Cassandra pulled L to her, up onto the couch, one hand on her breast, the other in her hair. L moaned, suddenly captive, instantly afire, as Cassandra took her in a ferocious, hungry kiss.
She pulled L's hair, forcing L against her lips. She was beastly, tearing at L's breast, pinching and twisting its nipple in blazing pain until L screamed against her kiss. Growling, she abandoned breast for cunt, squeezing its fullness until L bucked.
Cassandra ended the kiss and pulled L's head back. “Wet,” she claimed, her voice smothering L's awareness. “Already.”
“Yes,” L whispered, her scalp burning from the pull, her memory burning with the images of those photo booth pictures.
“I bet you'll do anything I want.” She smirked.
L whimpered, wanting to answer but lost in the haze of Cassandra's power.
Fingers closed in on her clit. She gasped at their suddenness.
“Anything?” Cassandra urged, her voice demanding an answer.
L shuddered and mouthed a sound, tried for words, but failed.
“I want an answer…and now!”
The fingers pinched, hard. Agony exploded, gripping L so hard that bile pitched in her stomach. L yelled out.
“Yes! Anything!”
The pinch ended. Pain abated.
“Then take me to your bedroom.”
Your bedroom. Where weeks before, Quinn and Tara had tended to L after her first encounter with Cassandra. How she had glowed then, infatuated and enchanted, with no hint of the inner competence that would emerge.
She stood sentry at this threshold, just as she had at her apartment door, flipping on the light as Cassandra stepped into the room. Cassandra assessed the room, her gaze one swift, intelligent sweep. She sat on L's bed, dropping her purse to the floor.
“Come,” she said. “Undress me.”
Cassandra put a foot forward, indicating where to begin.
L knelt—before an athletic shoe, aware for the first time how casually Cassandra had dressed for the occasion. Matters not, she thought, reaching for its shoelaces. Matters not—when had that become a mantra?
Focusing on the question would detract from the duty before her. L kept her attention centered on the act of removing Cassandra's shoes, pulling laces loose, and opening each tongue before sliding them free of her mistress's feet. She centered her actions on removing Cassandra's socks and then upward to her other clothes.
Removing each item of clothing brought small insights into Cassandra: how she preferred to have shoelaces loosened and tongues pulled open, how she wanted to stand to let L pull her pants down, how she enjoyed the slow unbuttoning of her blouse. She even advised, “slow and steady wins the race,” straight out of Aesop.
And, surprisingly, how she preferred plain cotton undergarments to lacier, racier wear.
Small revelations all, but all the more intimate because they added to map of Cassandra's being.
The task done, L risked wandering Cassandra's body with her eyes, hunger driving her to admire and adore the woman before her. Her gaze lingered along the curves that defined Cassandra's body—the full breasts, nipples large and puckered, hips rounded by the passage of years, the rise of belly, thighs strong, protecting the cleft buried between them. If Cassandra chose to punish her for the affront, so be it, but L needed to behold her mistress.
Satisfied, she lowered her gaze. A chuckle punctuated her action—Cassandra had noticed.
“Take enough in, L?”
Her tone was sharp but teasing, without any hint of disapproval.
L batted her eyes, embarrassed, but she nodded. “Yes, ma'am. Thank you.”
“My body pleases you.”
Now definitive, her tone drove L to a hard blush.
“Very much so.”
She could barely utter the acknowledgment through the hot flush that engulfed her face and the lump it made in her throat.
Another chuckle followed, then a hand at her head, pushing L down onto all fours until her face was at Cassandra's feet.
“Show me your gratitude.”
Her head swimming, her heart racing, L placed a soft, adoring kiss to each of Cassandra's feet.
“Thank you, ma'am, for allowing my gaze.”
“Rise up. On your knees. Arms behind your back.”
L complied, wondering whether the scene would now unfold as punishment or pleasure.
The first slap stung her right breast, sudden and harsh, but its impact mellowed in the space of the gasp that escaped her. In its wake, a throb from her cunt ended her question: pleasure. Cassandra planted a second slap, this one to the other breast, its sensation so ravishing that L could not help but lift her chin, straighten her posture, and offer herself up for more. Cassandra chuckled and landed several swift swipes to them. L succumbed, captivated by Cassandra's finely tuned knowledge of her.
That savvy aptitude, however, did not save L from the next affliction to seize her. Cassandra snatched her nipples, gripping them like vises. Her pinch went deep—pain, screamed L's mind! But even this was not punishment.
Floating, L endured, unable to decide whether she wanted the pain to continue or end.
Cassandra set free one nipple. The other, she pulled taut with a cruel twist. When her slap met its flesh, the pain overwhelmed her, the instinct to wrench free and flee, its companion. Somehow, L forced herself to hold her ground.
“I want certain things from you tonight,” Cassandra informed L. “Things unusual for a submissive to perform for her superior.”
She slapped the captive breast. L quaked.
“Will you do whatever I want?”
Another slap, this one accented by a pinch so hard, L practically choked on its pain.
“Will you?”
Again, L had to
spit out an answer.
“Yes!”
The instant Cassandra let loose of her nipple, a throb racked L—lust mocking her. Curiosity, too, flared to life and her mind, baffled by Cassandra's intent, tried to compile a laundry list of possibilities. But endorphins had muddled L and her thoughts were little more that plodding meanderings. They yielded nothing.
Cassandra rose from L's bedside and pulled all but one pillow from their place at the headboard. Pillows and shams alike, she piled in the middle of the bed.
Right where one's pelvis would rest, L realized.
Cassandra watched L's reaction unfold. “That's right. I want it tonight. You'll do exactly what I say, when I say it, understand L?”
L nodded.
“No hesitation. No questions. Just act.”
Cassandra stared pointedly at L, prompting her to nod again.
She returned to her seat on the bed, her demeanor strict, her posture commanding. L could not imagine what Cassandra would demand of her, but when she did, L gasped and her eyes widened in surprise.
“I gave you a taste of what I like. I want you to slap my breasts, grab them, squeeze them. And don't be meek about it.”
The look Cassandra shot at L dared her not to fail. Dread threatened to overtake her—How can I? her submissive mind asked. But courage took hold and her submissive self demurred. Cassandra wants this. She knew exactly what to do—and Cassandra had luscious plenty to work with.
L sank her fingers clawlike into the meat of Cassandra's breasts and squashed them. She kneaded them violently, knowing that if a single slap could make her wet, then she would do everything possible to make Cassandra drench herself.
When the first slap came, Cassandra moaned. After dozens of slaps, she was mewling, her breasts rash-red from strikes and arousal alike. L pushed her back onto the bed and assaulted her nipples with her teeth and fingers. Biting one, pinching the other, she shoved her thigh hard between Cassandra's legs.
There, embedded in the beautiful rise of breasts, L became barbarous. Every ounce of lust she had ever swallowed in patient submission welled up. Brutish and avaricious, she tore at Cassandra, scratching, biting, marking, and marring her as fiercely as Cassandra ever had.
But L let loose the beast to please Cassandra. Had her mistress not commanded it of her, she would have kept the cage closed.
Finally, Cassandra rushed, “Quick, in my purse.”
L relented enough to grab and open it. Amid the usual womanly items sat latex gloves, lube, nipple clamps, and a small vibrator.
“The vibe. Give it to me.”
The once imperious voice sounded more like Marilyn Monroe about to come.
L grabbed the vibrator, handing it off to Cassandra as if they were expert relay racers. Cassandra slammed it on and pressed it against her clit.
“Resume,” she ordered.
Seeing her mistress flat on her back, her breasts captured between arms that stretched down to assist in the work at hand, L saw only one way to resume. She climbed behind Cassandra, nestled her head between her spread legs, and reached for a breast. She pulled it taut by the nipple—and thrashed it until her own hand stung. She was barely three slaps into tormenting the other breast when Cassandra lurched, cried out, and erupted in orgasm.
L saw the jolt of orgasm, witnessed Cassandra's long ride on its current, then watched her slow gyrations that coaxed every last luscious sensation from her body.
“Get me the clamps,” Cassandra commanded.
She held out her hand for them. L swallowed as she handed them over, expecting them to bite her flesh, but Cassandra set the clamps to her own nipples, hissing as each clamped tight. Wide-eyed, L wondered just what Cassandra intended. When Cassandra settled onto the pillows and tipped her pelvis upward, the invitation was unmistakable.
“Glove,” Cassandra ordered, her voice a tense, harsh whisper. “Lube.”
L pulled the glove onto her hand and into place, the memory of their first glorious night full in her mind. Cassandra had given her the universe that night, and she had changed L's world forever. Now Cassandra trusted L to return the favor—and L knew how rare a trust it was.
L poured lube onto her fingers, reached down, and gently readied Cassandra. Her soft touch earned her a moan of delight. L smiled, knowing such delights had only begun.
Another submissive might have resisted a dominant partner's demand for such a scene. Forget that Cassandra was conducting every move, right down to putting the clamps on herself. Forget that orders were issued and expectations made known. For many a submissive, the notion that one's dominant could be anything other than an unbending ruler and always on top was impossible—impossible to conceive of, impossible to contemplate, impossible to accept.
But L recognized Cassandra's appetite, saw herself reflected in it, and if Cassandra's hunger was a near kin to her void, then damn her if she failed to relieve Cassandra of it.
L pried Cassandra apart in a slow, tantalizing penetration, her fingers coaxing and encourage her mistress to accept her. The gloves did not prevent L from feeling the swollen, ready flesh that surrounded her, and it marveled her senses.
She worked her way into Cassandra, alternating slow caresses with the steady press of her hand. In no time, she had four fingers in and swathed herself with more lube. Then her thumb found entrance and purchase. She aimed to go deeper but proceeded with deliberate, respectful care.
Cassandra's cunt yielded an iota more space. So close, L thought, but the lower width of her hand now abutted Cassandra's pelvic bones. L doubted they could yield the way flesh did.
The sudden hum of Cassandra's vibrator echoed into L's hand. Cassandra had mounted it between her legs, wanting to come.
“The clamps,” she hissed, intensity reflected in her voice. “Pull.”
L took them and pulled like a rider reining in a headstrong horse. She kept her other hand anchored in Cassandra—the pommel to the reins.
Cassandra groaned, her eyes glazed over, and she gave herself over to the rise of a nearing orgasm. When it hit, she jerked, crying out, then shook with a sound that sounded closer to a sob than a sigh.
Intense, L thought. So very intense.
She expected to ease out of Cassandra, to gently bring her down. But Cassandra cursed, suddenly and vehemently. She threw the vibrator aside and, in what struck L as near panic, tore the clamps from her hands. She discarded them the way one might fling a crawling beetle from one's shoulder.
Panic, L realized! Calm her! She pressed her free hand upon Cassandra's belly and gently hushed her. “Shh, shh. It's okay. It's okay. Take a deep breath, that's it. Now exhale. Let me slide out.”
L moved gently and proficiently, slipping free of Cassandra. She kept her hand on Cassandra's thigh and continued to comfort her.
But Cassandra wanted up. She rose, casting aside L's hand upon her stomach, shaking free of L's touch at her thigh. Intuitively, L fell to her knees. Bravely, she looked Cassandra in the eye and asked, “What would you have of me?”
The request halted Cassandra's panic and her scramble to be free.
“I…I…” She looked confused.
L seized the initiative. “May I tell you something, ma'am?” She hesitated, then added, “Please?”
Cassandra nodded. Her body language relaxed like that of a child ready for a bedtime story.
“The night we met,” L began, “I was riddled with lust. But it wasn't the kind of lust that a good flogging and a couple of orgasms would satisfy. It was insatiable. You have no idea how many women played with me that night before you took me on. I wore them all out. That thing plagued me for years. I called it the void. It was like a black hole where no matter what tops did to me, it just swallowed them up and kept sucking in more.
“But you know what?”
L gazed at Cassandra as she posed the question. She hoped Cassandra could see the gratitude and devotion she felt.
“When you fisted me that night, the void vanished. Totally. It ha
sn't returned. And you opened me to something I'd never felt before: actual submission.”
L rose then and sat next to Cassandra, placing her hand upon her mistress's. “I will do anything you ask of me. Anything. Even something that can be construed as topping you.”
“Construed?” Cassandra asked.
L nodded. “Even then, I'm still owned. I'm still your submissive. I never lose sight of that.”
Cassandra titled her head and rested it against L's. Had they been sitting on a park bench, they would've appeared to passersby as two lovers sharing a close moment, and, in effect, they were, but the subject matter was anything but the usual sweet nothings. They were poignant everythings. And confessional.
“I pushed myself,” Cassandra admitted. “Something I haven't done in years. I needed it, but I forgot how intense it could be. I forgot the risks.” She stroked L's fingers, a gesture soft and appreciative. “I didn't mean for it to go wrong.”
“I know.”
“I'm sorry I panicked.” The apology, a near whisper, spoke volumes. Cassandra, exposed, had her own vulnerabilities.
Love swept L forward. She wanted the whole woman. Not the template. Not the shell. The whole woman.
“That's okay.” Now she stroked Cassandra's fingers, returning the soothing gesture. “Did I handle it all right? Would you prefer—”
The question went unfinished. Cassandra took her in her arms, a hand to L's throat and cheek, and drew her into a kiss so fervent, L had her answer.
Later, in the dark of her bedroom, chained to her bed and captive in Cassandra's spooning embrace, L drifted toward the satisfaction of sleep. A kiss lighted upon the crook of her neck. Words followed, whispered in her ear. Magical words, as if the confidences of tiny fairies had lighted there.
“My name,” the whisper revealed, “my real name…is Sandra.”
To which she replied, “And I am L. Your L.”
Familiarity surrounds L. The place, the people—the laughter, the camaraderie, the excitement; all of it celebratory. But she floats, bound to the table as she is. Her body, prepped, ready, will bear another sacrifice. It will accept another claim.
Reese, Quinn, Tara; they will witness this event just as they did when Cassandra first laid public claim to L. Together, their joy for L, for Cassandra is tantamount to a Mardi Gras, a Carnaval.
