But the stick family drawn on the family room wall clearly depicted two little boys. Maybe now was the time.
The Sub
He crawled toward her, ashamed and embarrassed.
He knew his lack of self-confidence had gotten him into this position, but that wasn’t what drew such raw, gut-wrenching emotion from him. His Mistress was disappointed with him, and knowing that tore him up. He hated when she was upset with him.
This was Zack’s second D/s relationship, although the first couldn’t really be considered D/s. It was more like a sadistic woman who liked to abuse, and a sub who didn’t really understand what power exchange actually meant.
All he’d known was that he had a yearning to please women. To let go of all the darkness that inhibited him and allow another to take control of him, even if the control was only for an intense session.
His first Mistress was happy to beat him, not for punishment or because he did something wrong, but because she loved the power wielding a cat or a cane gave her. Zack didn’t realize that this wasn’t a healthy Dom/sub relationship, for he was new to the lifestyle.
When he went to hospital for what he suspected was a broken rib after a session with his first Mistress, he was seen to by a woman with the softest and most caring brown eyes he’d ever seen.
Of course he didn’t know it, but she was a Domme. She automatically recognized in him the beautiful traits of a true submissive.
Lowered eyes, willingness to please, and of course the strength it took to embrace such a lifestyle.
The doctor spoke to Zack at great length, and although she had a moral obligation to report the monster he was currently seeing, she chose to try a different approach.
There was just something about him…maybe his timid, shy ways, or his hypnotic blue eyes that called to her. She wanted to protect him, to guide him, but mostly, to teach him.
She invited him to the local BDSM club as her guest to observe, so he could truly understand what a D/s relationship was.
Zack debated going, but after drawing up a pro-and-con list, he chose to go to the club. When he found the doctor, he kneeled beside her on the soft carpet and watched everything as it took place. Her hand gently petted him as he witnessed first-hand the correct forms of a D/s relationship.
His eyes grew large, and his heartbeat raced inside his chest. He watched the Doms (mostly male) play with their submissives (mostly female), and he watched as the subs begged for the stern, yet loving hands of their Doms. He saw that the play here was all consensual, sane, safe, and surprisingly loving. Not once did any submissive use their safe word, and he wondered about that.
He’d used his many times, only to have his Mistress continue to flail away at him, ignoring his pleas to stop. But watching these submissives become aroused by the caressing touches of their Doms made him begin to comprehend the awful situation he had been in.
He finally understood that what he had with the Mistress that landed him in hospital was not love. It wasn’t even BDSM. It was a woman on a power trip, a demon, a sadistic temptress who hurt others just for the sick fun of it.
But now, three months later, Zack crawled toward the doctor, and his heart was hurting. She told him that she didn’t want him to disrespect himself any longer, nor did she want to hear him say that he felt like a failure for not understanding the signs.
Today at lunch, he had looked at the doctor and told her that he ‘felt like a fucking idiot’. His new Mistress snapped her eyes to him and put down her fork. He could tell she was angry.
“I’ve told you on more than one occasion that I won’t allow you to think such things about yourself, and secondly, you swore to me that you would not. You’re also aware that I do NOT tolerate such vulgar words,” Mistress had said, making Zack lower his eyes in shame.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he replied, completely ashamed.
“Tonight I’ll give you ten strokes of the cane for your persistent self-loathing. You will not come, and all play is suspended for a week.”
Torture! That’s all that Zack thought.
Not being able to please his Mistress was the ultimate in punishments. He’d happily take the ten strokes, or even more. But knowing that he’d not be able to pleasure her or please her, ripped his damned heart out.
“Yes, Mistress,” Zack said, trying to be the good submissive he knew she wanted, although he was fighting back the emotion attempting to tear out of his chest.
Now Zack was kneeling beside the whipping bench. His head hung low, his body alive but regretting that it was his own mouth that got him here.
He sat back on his haunches, waiting for his Mistress’s command.
“I’m disappointed,” she started, and his heart broke at hearing those words.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said in a small, defeated voice.
“Why are we here, Zachery?” She only used his full name when she was incredibly upset with him.
“Because I used bad language and called myself a name,” Zack said, trying not to reinforce the negative thoughts that seemed to run through his head incessantly.
“Up on the bench. Thread your wrists through the leather straps, bottom up in the air,” she said in her usual cool, controlled tone.
He knew though. He knew she was still saddened by his self-loathing. It was getting better, the voice of his former Mistress telling him how ugly and useless he was, began to slowly fade in his mind.
The first strike of the cane stung, though her cool hand was soothing the moment the cane was lifted off his skin.
“Count them out loud,” she said, when the second strike happened.
“Two,” Zack murmured.
The third blow was harder than the first two, and when he screamed out the number three, her hand automatically kneaded the soft skin where the cane had landed.
“Why am I upset, Zachery?” she asked with the fourth blow, landing right in the middle of his butt.
“Because of how I think of myself,” he spoke in a small, sorry voice.
The fifth, sixth and seventh strikes were in quick succession, though they all still hurt the same.
“That upsets me, because it means that you don’t trust in your Mistress,” she said when lowering the cane with hit number eight.
Zack tensed, not because of the pain, but because he didn’t stop to think that when he said those things about himself, he was in actual fact, demonstrating a lack of trust and belief in his Mistress’s words.
He wasn’t giving her his submission and allowing her to take care of him, even though that was what this world revolved around. It wasn’t the toys, the whips, the handcuffs, or even the sexual torture. No, they were all sensation play. The heart of a D/s relationship required him to trust that she would take control, releasing him from his troubles and worries, and keeping him safe.
Number nine snapped him out of the heavy head space he’d fallen into, and he whimpered when he spoke the number.
When the tenth kiss of the cane came down, his Mistress instantly dropped it onto the hardwood floor and told him to let go of the leather straps he held. She commanded him to turn around and wrapped him in a beautiful, loving embrace.
She soothed his hair, and peppered his face with kisses.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said, his own arms tightening around her, understanding dawning on him as to why he was really being punished.
The next words spoken completely floored him, for he didn’t believe that he deserved her or the three perfect words she whispered.
“I love you.”
Zack’s heart filled with a light so bright, so forceful, so powerful that he did the only thing he could.
He dropped to his knees – head lowered, palms facing up, and in total submission, he was finally able to tell her what he felt.
“I love you, Mistress.”
Sir
“Are you ready to order tonight, Sir?” the young waitress asks me.
She’s cute, but she isn’t
really what I’d consider stunning. She’d be alright for tonight, but I want something a tad more, hmmmm, what’s the word…exotic?
“Go away, and send Asia over,” I say without even lifting my eyes from the menu.
“Jerk,” I hear her mutter as she walks away.
Only a few moments pass before Asia waltzes over, a smug look on her face and a gleam in her eye.
“Causing the staff to gossip again?” she asks me, mirth in her voice.
“I don’t care about them. I just want you to take my order,” I answer. Truthfully, I just want her, period.
“People will begin to talk.”
I straighten my tie and sit back in my seat. The chair is comfortable, but I’m not here for the chair; I’m here for her.
“Then I suppose we can really give them something to talk about. Maybe if I bend you over this table, rip down your panties and fuck you from behind, they’d have something to gossip about.”
Her eyes don’t flutter. Not fucking once. She simply taps her pen to her lips, and smiles at me.
“Well that would give them a show. But seeing as it’s not going to happen, then I would suggest you be nice to the other waitstaff and just order your dinner.”
Every time I come here I try to get her to come back to my place for a good ol’ fashion fucking, tie her up, play with her, make her come, and then make me come. Rinse and repeat. I keep upping the ante, and she keeps rejecting me every time, regardless of what I say or do. But tonight, I’m not going to let her go. Not without taking her home to fuck every way I possibly can.
“What if I want to eat my dinner off you?” I say as look up at her.
God, she’s fucking beautiful. Long, dark hair, and dark, sun-kissed, deliciously smooth skin. I can see straight through to her soul in the reflection of her eyes, they’re so deep and expressive. And dear lord, those lips! Plump and firm, and just plain fuckable.
She huffs and rolls her eyes at me.
“I’d stop that if I were you, because you’re making me hard and you’ll have to crawl under the table and suck me off.”
She laughs at me! Does she not realize how damn frustrating she is?
“Or how about I run my tongue deep inside your cunt?” I say.
This time, she doesn’t laugh or even roll her eyes at me. She simply smiles.
“Sir, you’ve tried everything. Is this your last ditch effort?”
“Far from it. I’m only warming up.”
“Anyway, what would you like for dinner?” Asia taps her foot and tilts her head to the side, just challenging me with a look. One that tells me I’m wasting my time.
She clearly doesn’t know me well – it’s obvious. Because I go after what I want and I get whatever my heart (and cock) desires. And tonight, they both desire her.
“Fine, bring me dinner.”
“And that would be what?” She smirks.
“You, naked, spread out on the table, legs apart, with a streak of chocolate so I can lick it off you.”
“And your second choice,” she quickly responds, not missing a beat.
“I’ll fuck your ass, but I prefer to lick your pussy first.”
“Lobster it is,” Asia says as she turns on her hot heels and leaves me.
I sit back and enjoy the sway of her ass as her pencil skirt hugs the contours of her cheeks.
Soon, I’ll fuck her and that pert little behind, and then I’ll get over this stupid obsession I have with her. Pffft, who am I kidding? I’ll never be over my fixation with her.
Moments later, another waitress approaches, her smile big and her eyes say that she’s been sent to me as a challenge by Asia.
“Sir, can I get you another beverage?” she asks, all sweet and innocent, a twinkle in her eye and her pearly whites displayed in a quite attractive smile.
I lean back in my chair, look her up and then let my gaze travel all the way down to her ugly, cheap shoes.
“Where’s Asia?”
“She’s on her break.”
“She’s on her break, now?”
“Yes, sir,” she purrs, trying to sound sexy but all she’s doing is sounding like a desperate loser.
“Is she still in the restaurant?” I bring the tumbler to my lips to find that it’s empty. “Bring me a scotch, neat. Top shelf.”
“I’ll be back in a moment with your drink, sir.” She licks her lips and attempts a sexy lip curl, but she looks tacky, and nowhere near sensual. She ignored my question regarding Asia’s whereabouts.
I stand and go to the rest room, though what I’m actually doing is trying to find Asia. As I walk down the hallway toward the bathrooms, Asia comes out of the ladies’ room, crying.
She moves to pass me, but I grab her by the upper arm and stop her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Asia looks down, her face red as tears fall freely from her pretty brown eyes.
“Nothing,” she says and tries to snatch her arm away from me to leave.
I drag her into the female bathroom and lock the door behind us.
“What are you doing? You can’t be in here.” She looks nervous, her eyes darting to and fro.
“Go check to see if there’s anyone in the stalls.” Asia stands still, she appears so lost. “Now,” I bark at her. She startles and cowers back, trying to melt into the wall. I take a deep breath, and try to soften my voice, “Could you please check to see if there’s anyone in the stalls?”
She’s pissed me off. First she rejects me, then she refuses to tell me what the hell is wrong with her. But finally, she complies.
Asia walks in and walks back less than a few seconds later. She stands by the door that leads from the powder room into the toilets, her shoulders down, her arms crossed in front of her, and her tears continue to flow.
So vulnerable, so damn beautiful.
“Now, why are you crying?” I ask her, as she subtly turns away from me.
“It doesn’t matter; it’s not your problem.”
“Are you insane? If it concerns you, then it concerns me.” I put my hands in the pockets of my suit pants and straighten my back.
“This has nothing to do with you…” she hesitates, waiting for me to tell her my name.
“As always, Sir will do,” I say in my own smug tone.
She rolls her eyes again and blows a huge breath out. “You’re exactly like everyone else, so I’m not sharing shit with you,” she says as she tries to step past me to leave the restroom.
That crap doesn’t fly. Her tough, sassy exterior is her defense mechanism, and nothing more.
I grab her by the upper arm as she attempts to leave the room. My hand is tightly wrapped around her soft, warm skin, not allowing her leave, commanding her to stay.
“Stop,” she says in a small innocent voice. My gaze follows the line of her exposed throat, delicate smooth skin screaming at me to lower my mouth and mark her, to rule her, to conquer every inch of her body.
“Tell me why you’re in tears,” I say as I lean down and allow my lips a gentle taste of the column of her throat.
“It doesn’t concern you,” she struggles to say again. She’s attempting to hold on to her control, not wanting to give me the sadness and pain in her soul.
I lightly tease her skin with my tongue, just showng her a tiny sample of the pleasure I can give her. I nip on her ear lobe and she mewls softly as she pushes her body into mine.
“Everything about you concerns me,” I say, reminding her that she has yet to tell me what the hell is going on with her.
“I just need some time. I’ll be fine.” She leans her forehead against my chest, just relaxing into me, finally giving me something.
“Asia.” I place my finger under her chin, and tilt her head up so she can’t hide from me.
“Yeah,” she whimpers.
“Sorry?” ‘Yeah’ – really?
“What?”
Now she’s pissing me off.
“It’s ‘yes’ and ‘pardon’, not ‘yeah’ and ‘what’,�
�� I snap, barely preventing my rage from breaking through.
Suddenly her eyebrows knit together and she pulls back. She looks concerned, frightened but also aroused.
“Pardon?” she says, her voice shaky, but husky with desire.
“You have nothing to worry about. Now tell me what’s happened.”
She takes a deep breath, obviously debating with herself on what she should and shouldn’t say. Finally, after a few moments of internal struggle, she actually opens her mouth to speak. “It all happened so fast. First my boss brought me into his office to pink-slip me, and then right after that my boyfriend called and told me he wants to break it off. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Your parents?”
“Both died two summers ago in a car accident.”
Her body collapses against mine. She begins shaking uncontrollably, sobbing, and I do the only thing I can. I support her, running my hand down her back. I begin to feel her body ease as she becomes accustomed to me and my body.
“Come on. You can stay with me until we can figure this out.”
Of course her parents died. I knew that.
I even knew that tonight she’d be fired from her job and that her hopeless, low-life boyfriend would throw her out of their apartment, because I had one of my associates pay him a visit.
I walk her out to my limousine and Stanley, my driver, stands holding the door open. He smiles at me, a discreet curve of his lips, just enough for me to see. I return his look, my own smile dancing triumphantly on my lips.
I help her into the car, wrap her in my arms and wait until Stanley has the car in motion.
“Derrick is nothing more than a dick,” I say as she lays her head against my chest, in a state of contentment.
“He’s more like a…” She pauses. “How did you know his name’s Derrick?” She tenses and pulls away from me, scooting toward the end of the bench seat.
I remain quiet, letting Asia’s mind go wherever it wants to.
The seconds pass.
They turn into long, drawn-out minutes.
I breathe in and smell it. That deep aroma, the one that betrays the heart pounding in their chests.
Crave Page 49
