Master of Two: Nascent Love

by Derek

  He wanted to fantasize that she was someone else, as he warned her, but, in fact, there was no one else to be his fantasy girl. Amiko was his lacy, sexy pleasure-tool, and at twenty-one she was becoming someone both adept and potent. When she popped his cock in her mouth and began to take him deep, he wondered if he could do it, actually give her away and see her enmeshed in someone else’s sensual web.

  The sensation of the back of her throat on his stiff flesh drew his attention back to the girl and only the girl. She sucked and slid him out of her mouth and back in again, finding a rhythm that would inexorably bring him to climax. He pulled at her hair, applying steady pressure so that she would remember her place. In a small way—perhaps a cruel way—he hoped she’d make a sound, any sound, so that he could punish her more rudely than he planned. He resented her hold over him. However, he was in charge of both her and himself, even as she was performing so eagerly on his cock.

  She increased the rhythm, and he once again lost track of anything but each passing moment and the building heat in his balls. Soon…it would come soon.

  His hand left her hair and slid over her arm and under to cup her breast. The small mound was familiar, welcome in his large hand. He found a tender nipple and gave it a pull, enjoying her small shudder and the closing of her eyes as the pain crept over her. He rolled the nipple in his fingers, squeezing it hard and releasing it with a twist. Her breath was fast now, her scent growing stronger and a flush stole over her face. In the past, he had allowed her to orgasm in response to these trifling excitements, but not tonight.

  Marc explored the skin of her side, her flat belly, and her hip. She was perfectly formed, her curves a sensual pleasure, a visceral enticement. His orgasm neared; it was so close, so very close. Once again his hand stole under her body and he grasped her breast, squeezing the firm flesh until he felt her silent gasp as a cool zephyr along his wet cock. He raised his hips and found her head with his big hand, guiding her faster against him, pounding her throat with his hardness, stealing her breath away until all she could do was gasp when he allowed her to breathe.

  Although anticipated, the moment of his release was almost a surprise, as it always was. One moment he was a randy animal, and the next he was seeing stars and galaxies, holding his breath and then releasing it with a grunt of pure pleasure. He held her head steady, his semen shooting into her hot throat until it finally abated. Finally, he let go of her. She raised her head, gasping for air, eyes closed and lashes spiky with unshed tears.

  Marc let her recover as he was recovering, too. Although his blood pressure had dropped with his ejaculation, he refused to fall into sleep; there was still one more chore to perform. He rested, fighting Morpheus. His voice was gravelly but firm when he said, “Get up, Amiko. Move back down to the floor and wait.”

  She nodded, heeding his order to be quiet, and crawled off the bed to kneel up nearby, her head bowed, her lips red from recent use.

  Marc swung himself off the bed, and coolly reached for his canvas bag. A little rummaging and he found what he wanted: a leather paddle. It was perhaps seven inches long, a rectangle with a narrower handle. It was made of doubled, firm but supple leather and snapped smartly when he tested it against his palm. Ami jumped at the sound, and though she never turned her gaze up, her bottom lip trembled.

  “You may speak.” Her head rose and she cast her dark eyes on him. “Are you afraid, Ami? Do you realize how angry you made me?”

  Amiko’s voice was shaky and she cleared her throat before speaking. “Yes, sir.” Her eyes went to the paddle in his hand, then back up to his face.

  “I plan to tan your behind with this paddle, girl. I plan to make sure that for the next few days you remember how pissed off I can be.” He slapped his palm with the paddle again; it hurt his calloused hand, but it would be much worse on Amiko’s tender fanny. “And, I am going to throw out that vibrator. Do you have any others?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good.” Marc moved to sit on the edge of the bed and patted his thighs. “Come here.”

  * * *

  Amiko didn’t want to go to him, and yet she wanted to pay the price for her disobedience. Once she’d been punished, it would be over and they could go on as they’d done before. His anger would be gone, the tears would dry, and she would be returned to his affections. She crawled to him and then rose to spread herself over his lap. He’d spanked her before, though he’d always used just his hand. That had been bad enough, but that paddle looked and sounded much, much worse.

  “Count.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The first strike came swiftly, before she could tense in preparation. It stung terribly on her left butt cheek.

  “One, sir,” she said on a gasp.

  Another stroke of the paddle and her right butt cheek got hot. “Two, sir!”

  The third smack made her jump as it landed on the underside and middle of her bottom, spanning that tender flesh cruelly. She began to sob.

  “Count, Amiko, or I’ll start over.”

  “Three, sir!”

  By twelve, she was crying fully; by fifteen she began to beg him to stop. Her butt was on fire. She felt as though the tender skin had been flayed from her behind, that she was raw, every nerve screaming as she wished she could do.

  At the end of the twentieth stroke, he put the paddle down and pushed her off his lap.

  “Go to your bed.”

  No cuddling. No warm post-spanking embrace. No forgiveness offered. It was the most cruel thing he could have done. The pain of her tortured flesh was nothing in comparison to the pain in her heart.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she sobbed. “Please forgive me.”

  “You are forgiven, but I’m tired. We will talk about this more tomorrow, Amiko. Now go to your bed.”

  * * *

  Three days later, she was transferred to another man. She went willingly, realizing that she needed the imposed discipline of a dominant male. Too, she knew that she was still naïve, and she trusted Marc to find her the right situation and the right person to shift her obedience to. Over the next year, she was with two more dominant men; men who considered her precious property, and in many ways she was spoiled and cosseted. Her formal training was nearly complete, her spirit unbroken when she met the Master, Kevin Watson. He took her breath away.

  * * *

  Renee considered her own training experiences, so different from Amiko’s and yet leading to the same place, the same man. She was attracted to the younger woman both sexually and as a person. Having Amiko around was going to be an adjustment for each of them, but perhaps something particularly special could come of it. She trusted their Master to find the way.

  A Man of Discipline

  Sweat runs down my bare chest and back as I finish my workout, and I'll have a bruise or two on my ribs tomorrow, but I've been boxing since my early college days and it's a sport that makes me more comfortable in my own skin. Now, at forty-two, it is harder to do what I did as a twenty-year-old, but I am also more savvy, wily, and just plain stubborn. As in other aspects of my life, I take control of the situation and turn it to my advantage more often than not.

  Some people call me a "control freak" and I admit, there is some truth to that. I've been that way for a long time and seem to have a natural tendency toward taking charge of chaotic systems and ordering them, changing them into something managed and reliable. I am the sort of guy whose clothes have to face the right direction in the closet, but I don’t line up the pens in my desk drawers.

  That's the way I behave, and the way I want others around me to behave: disciplined and reliable. Growing up, I found myself allied with my taciturn father more often than with my unpredictable mother. I suppose I learned to prefer strength of character over whimsy. My mother was an artist, and although I loved her, her fickleness often grated my nerves.

  Both of my parents are gone now; killed in a small plane crash. My father piloted the little Cessna, but I don't blame him for the ac
cident. He was a rock-solid guy who got me through some difficult moments growing up. Randolf didn't say much, but his actions were loud and clear.

  I remember in high school, how I was the smart guy to whom people turned when they couldn't understand the homework or needed an answer to a problem with a girl. I guess I was like Cyrano de Bergerac, writing love letters that would bear another man's name. It was an awkward time for me. But eventually, I found a girl who wanted me for me. Teenagers that we were, there were constant issues to be dealt with. After a while, I had to step away from that relationship because her behavior was too emotional and erratic and began to be something I had to manage more often than I liked. I took control of the situation, but I was still pretty green, and my ham-handed arm chair psychology left us both unhappy and alone.

  But in college, I tried a few new things with the girls I dated. After a while they weren't so callow, and there was more order than chaos.

  I had a lovely girl my sophomore year. Her name was Tasha. She was a beautiful woman, with soft, light coffee colored skin and bright sloe eyes. I thought I was in love with her, and maybe I was. At the time, I didn't know what love for a woman really meant – my parents were fractious and sometimes distant with each other. My mother got a wild hair up her ass one year and adopted my baby sister, Loretta. I was thirteen at the time. It was a crazy, emotional decision, but my father went along, so there we were, suddenly a family of four. That took some getting used to, but I adapted.

  After I got into Princeton, Tasha and I spent more than a few hours babysitting Lori as she moved beyond babyhood, and I have to say, if I've ever loved anyone, truly loved a person for everything she is and the potential she has, I loved my baby sister.

  That kind of love came more naturally to me than the kind of love Tasha was trying to find, and although I felt some emotion for her, I don't know how I'd label it–or for that matter, whether a label is even necessary.

  Tasha was a very sensual person. She loved sex—everything about it. And, with a young man's raging hormones, I was ready, willing and able to indulge her. There were things I'd seen during a trip to Amsterdam with my father, magazines and adult comic books, that left a lasting impression on me. I was drawn to the sadomasochist stuff the most—not blood and destruction, but the expressions on the faces of the participants pulled me in. I wanted to try some of those things with Tasha, and she was more than willing to accommodate me.

  The first time I spanked her, she took to it like a sea turtle to water. Even though it made her cry, she was wet and ready for me to fuck. Her breasts were firm, the nipples hard and, before I took her, I pinched rather roughly and found that, not only did she react with enthusiasm, but I enjoyed it immensely. Her moan, the arch of her spine, the suffering on her face, and the way she bit her lip as I slowly twisted those nipples, turned me on so much, I nearly came right there on her belly.

  I tested other aspects of sadomasochism, gently at first, then with a little more force. I found out what I could do that gave her sensual pain, and learned what would cause bruises—bruises that I felt guilty about afterward. I didn't want to go that far. It wasn't sexy; it was brutal. My morals and my sense of self-control kept me from doing things I would regret later. Giving Tasha a spanking, pinching here and there, wouldn't harm her, and always made her come harder. Me, too.

  Now, maybe, as I experimented cautiously, I was hard on her. Her nipples were my playthings and I was rough with them. She could come from my pulls and twists on that tender flesh. I let her, exploring the limits of my sexuality by observing her reactions to the strength of my pinches and twists. She'd arch into my hands and say encouraging things. "Yeah, baby, harder. That hurts so good."

  Tasha was a talker in bed. There was never any doubt in my mind what she liked and didn't like. In that way, she was perfect for a young man with minimal experience with sex. "Do it, do it, do it," was her mantra more often than not.

  But the more eager she became, the more I wanted to control the situation and parcel out the treats in my own time. I loved to listen to her beg for orgasms.

  I'd fuck her hard and fast, sometimes to the point where the head of my prick would feel a little battered the next day, but if she was near to coming, I'd withdraw. She'd beg me to continue, plead with me and coax, so I'd relent. She learned to say thank you for each and every orgasm I allowed her to have.

  There’s a strange scent that wafts from a woman in sexual pain, and I found out that it shoots right to my hindbrain. I absolutely loved the perfume of her pain when we delved into sadomasochistic territory. She smelled like wet female, clean sweat and something else—something subtle and sublime. It turned me on, and as I look back on it now, if anything could be pointed out as central to the evolution of my sexual sadism, it was that fragrance, and the effect it had on me. Even today, nothing makes me hard as does that special smell.

  All of our play was consensual and I knew she'd back me up on that, but sometimes she'd beg for more than I was willing to give, and I had too much to lose. I was knee-deep in schoolwork, trying to make the best grades in order to get into the economics program at the Chicago school. Coming from Princeton, if I could manage the highest grades, test scores, and class placement, I had a decent shot at it. Any kind of legal hassle would put all of my plans in jeopardy. So I avoided bruising her at all costs–should a routine medical visit put her bruises in view of a medical professional, my academic career would have been in serious jeopardy.

  I gave her most of what she wanted, but not all of it. We'd live out some of the fantasies I cherished from those Amsterdam books, but within the limits I set. Tasha would pout and cajole, but my limits were hard limits.

  One day, she begged me on hands and knees to slap her. I'd spanked her more than a few times, and, at her request, slapped her breasts and pussy. The pain excited her to a very high degree, so high that I realized she'd be as excited by my rough sexual practices as if I was to truly harm her. Harm her, I would not do–that’s not the way I was raised. Not only didn’t I want to cause harm, I felt strongly that it wasn't right to do damage to another person that way. Seeing her in pain excited me, but there's a certain point where the idea of going past harsh into something sick makes you pause and take a step back.

  She knelt there, begging me to slap her, her eyes were glistening, all deep purple-brown and excited. Her hands were on my denim-clad thighs and her freshly spanked bottom was resting gingerly on her heels.

  "Don't make demands on me, Tasha," I told her. It irritated me when she tried to take charge of the situation. She knew I would take care of her needs within limits and yet she constantly tested the limits.

  "Slap my face," she said. "Slap me and make me feel like the naked bitch in heat I am."

  I was definitely not going to slap her face. That was way beyond what was reasonable, and it suggested she had some kind of emotional problems. To slap a person in the face—especially a woman—was the lowest form of disrespect. I told her no firmly, and turned to walk away. She grabbed me by the leg and begged.

  "I'm a cunt, I'm a whore, I'm shit," she said wildly. "I need you to teach me a lesson. I want to be better."

  It took a lot of self-discipline to disengage her from my leg, but I was so disgusted by her behavior, I knew that I had to pull back, pull away emotionally or be sucked down into the riptide of her illness. For illness it was. It was beyond a sexual need to be roughly stimulated and deep into the realm of self-loathing. She needed help, not sadomasochistic sex play.

  Once I'd disengaged her from my leg, I pulled her upright and held her in my arms. She cried, sobbing and begging me to strike her, make her clean again. But, of course I wouldn't. I held her and told her how beautiful she was, how perfect and fresh and desirable. I tried to counter all of her self-hatred with affection and respect. After a while, she quieted and apologized.

  I accepted her apology, but that was the end of our relationship. I talked her into seeing the campus mental health professionals,
and stood by her through the difficult first two weeks of her therapy. At times, her doctor would stare at me curiously, and I knew she'd told the man about our sadomasochistic sex, but he never said a word to me. I guess it was telling enough that I'd brought her for help and tried to be supportive while she was getting it. I might have been sexually sadistic—I was; I knew it—but I was not a monster. I had morals and a sense of right and wrong.

  Tasha was embarrassed by the entire episode and there was no way I was going to get back into the same situation again, so there was no place for us to go as a couple.

  I found other women while at Princeton, and had vanilla relationships. I was attractive enough, I guess. They tell me my gray eyes are appealing and that I have a good smile. I was boxing regularly, so maybe they saw physical strength, too. Those vanilla relationships were much less satisfying, but I had been burned by the fire of Tasha's unhealthy masochism and didn't think I would likely find a masochistic woman who didn't have deep psychological problems. I limited my behaviors to spanking during sex, and slightly rough fucking. It was hard to keep my hands from wanting to tug ungently on nipples and labia, and I really had to work to lave a swollen clit with my tongue gently and not nip at it. But I kept myself under tight rein.

  Eventually, I graduated from Princeton, and to my delight was accepted right into the PhD program at University of Chicago's school of economics—the most prestigious program, some said, in the world of economics.

  I was twenty-four and had the world on a string, as they say. It was a lot of hard work, but I knuckled down and did it, letting much of the rest of my life wait while I ground through the economics program relentlessly.

  It took me five years, but I got my PhD, and, having graduated at the top of my class, was recruited by some big economics consultancies and brokerage firms. I took the one with the most potential for networking and prominent projects. The money meant less to me—money is part of my family heritage—but I was happy to live in Manhattan and rake in the bucks that were offered.