by Q. Zayne
“Thank you. Hi, I’m Cleo. You probably know that. The monitor said something about everyone here being prepared. I’ve never done this before. I mean, I had a boyfriend who spanked me, and I’ve been to SM clubs in San Francisco. That’s where I live. But I just arrived at the island and this is the first room I picked, so I really don’t know what I’m doing.” I spread my hands. Yeah, the babbling was way worse.
A small smile humanized his handsome face. I imagined The Thinker at the De Young museum smiling for me. What was happening here? I wasn’t usually so fanciful. Maybe that was part of the escape The Island provided. The labyrinth and its shadowy lighting gave permission to imagine, to slide out of reality into desire.
“Come closer,” he whispered.
The cat, indignant, surrendered his lap. The man pressed a button and the door opened wide enough for the animal’s tail-high exit. It shut, leaving me alone with him, staring at his unoccupied lap.
I’d stopped dead a couple of feet from him. I glanced down, as though I were facing a dread chasm in a jungle movie with a broken rope bridge dangling over rapids and sharp rocks.
I meant to move my foot but it wouldn’t go. My eyes watered. This was crazy, ridiculous.
“I can’t.”
He held out his hand. My heart thundered. The thunder reached my eardrums in the old storm warning that said I was about to cry. If I did that right now it would be a flood, and I wouldn’t be able to stop. What the fuck was wrong with me?
I made myself grab his hand. His ring felt warm against my skin. His hand was so big it took mine completely, like a carnivorous plant eating its prey. What were the odds I’d leave this room alive? Maybe they harvested kidneys here. His hands could be surgeon’s hands. The other one rested on his muscular thigh, next to an impressive package. Damn. If this stud wasn’t stuffing his shorts, he was hung.
Lines radiated around his eyes as his smile deepened.
I had the uncanny impression he knew what I was thinking.
He tugged my hand.
“Come on, Cleo. You want this.”
Damn it. I did.
“You know you do. I know you do. Relax. What happens in here is between us. We can go as far as you like, or stop whenever you want. I realize it might be difficult to let yourself go with a stranger.” His smile widened. His grip on my hand served as a lifeline and helped keep me from bolting from the room. He reminded me of one of my favorite teachers, only more masculine, more polished. He was like a top of the line model, and I’d only experienced the economy class, the junior males of the species. Even Josh. He was enthusiastic, but what manliness he had was an effort.
This man, he exuded power, made alpha masculinity appear as effortless as breathing. He existed, therefore he dominated. I blushed from my hairline to the tops of my breasts.
“I will ask you questions, and you’ll answer them honestly.”
I bristled, but controlled my face. Did he assume I’d lie to him?
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the meaning of your name? Is there a story behind it?”
I laughed and threw my hair back. That was an easy one. I’d had a lifetime of explaining being Cleo.
“My mother was a Cleopatra fan. Saying she was borderline obsessed might be a better description. I count myself lucky she didn’t have the queen’s cartouche tattooed on my ass.” I scanned his face.
His grin showed he understood. I usually had to explain that the cartouche was the oval that enclosed the hieroglyphs in a royal name. “My name on my birth certificate is Cleopatra Olivia Nefertiti Isis. Mom covered all the bases. I shortened it to Cleo immediately, which was difficult enough in school. It wasn’t until I grew up that the name came to have some panache. Although I get the sense that it adds to being exoticized as non-white. Still, I don’t fault my mother for wanting to create a link to our heritage. My early years might have been easier if she did like many immigrants and named me a common Anglo name. Girls in my neighborhood full of kids from many countries often had names like Mary, Ann, or Laura. There wasn’t any discourse about assimilation, at least, not that I was aware of at that time.”
“Yes, change is a gradual thing.” He nodded, his eyes telling me to continue.
“Now I’m proud that I was born in Egypt. I’ve made attempts at tracing my family tree, but finding records is challenging. My mother’s family includes people in honest yet low-end trades, merchants, weavers, even diggers for archaeological excavations. My father graduated from the University of Edinburgh and came to Egypt as a researcher in Biblical history. My parents have an unlikely love story. She never fully embraced his beliefs, and he couldn’t live without her. I think he believed he gave up his chance at heaven for his foreign, unbeliever bride.” I smiled, remembering his tenderness toward her. “He was devoted to her. She had difficulties, her nerves, that made life challenging for all of us.” I shut up. It pained me to talk about her. It took me years to accept that my mother had mental problems, that her breakdowns, rants and violence were mental illness, masked by the euphemism of the day, ‘nerves.’ No need to unburden that shame and morass of unhealed wounds with the handsome stranger.
“Fascinating. Like threads woven through a tapestry hundreds of years old. You know, in many cultures the textile traditions are a form of story telling. The women—often weavers and embroiderers are women—embed symbols important to them in their work. Clothing, blankets, rugs, all speak to us from lives that were otherwise lost in silence.”
I nodded, moved. I rarely met a man who paid any attention to the lives and creations of women. How odd and wonderful that he knew that about weaving. Quilts were one of the aspects of early American life that appealed to me most.
“I’d like to learn more about the weavers of my family, but the odds of locating any details of that heritage are slim.”
“Yes. Worth a try, though. Cleo. Cleopatra. I’m fond of the story of her arranging to be delivered to Caesar in a rug.”
His sexy smile suggested that like me, he’d imagined how that first night between Cleopatra and the much older Roman went.
“You’ll be more comfortable without your dress. Here.”
He rose, still holding my hand. I jumped. I was nervous as a virgin sold to some rich guy as a prize. I was acting like I’d never seen a man before, never touched a cock, and I was terrified he was going to hurt me.
In the part of myself that pulsed in my panties and in the secret chamber of my heart where my dirty thoughts lived, I wanted this man to hurt me. I wanted him to hurt me a lot. I wanted him to make me cry. I wanted to be a squalling mess over his lap and have him beat me longer than I’ve ever been beaten, so I come apart and beg him to fuck me, to ram me like I’m nothing but a fuck toy for his pleasure, to use me so hard I’m bruised inside for days and feel his cock every time I move, with every step I take, thrusting home inside me every time I sit down. I want him to order me to come to him again and to fuck me without warning, without foreplay, so soon after fucking me the first time that I’m still raw from him and it hurts the whole time and he makes it hurt more because he enjoys hurting me, he feasts on my pain, he wants to drive that cock up me so hard and deep I’ll never forget it, I’ll have to come crawling to him and beg him for it. I’ll have to thank him for each fuck and kiss his magnificent cock, my master’s cock, with my lips swollen from him fucking my face so hard I cried.
I stared at my shoes, willing my dirty mind to stop with the nasty movies of everything I wanted, needed, wished for from this masterful man. Talk about fantasy.
“Take it off, Cleo. The dress. Take off your dress.” He squeezed my hand and released it.
Instead of touching me as I feared, he took off his jacket.
He removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. He adjusted himself with a subtle gesture that made me cream.
Yes, make that big snake comfortable. Damn.
He resumed his seat in the wide armchair.
“I want you right here across
my lap bare-assed, Cleo. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Big exhale. I could do this. I slipped off my dress, rolled it and put it on a discreet shelf behind me. I glanced around the room, hoping the website was true and there were no hidden cams. Privacy seemed impossible in this era.
I hooked my thumbs in my panties, slid them down and stepped out of them. They caught on one spike heel and I teetered as I wrestled it free. Just not a graceful day.
I didn’t try to be seductive. I undressed as methodically as if I was changing for yoga class. I didn’t want to give away how excited I was, though I could smell my arousal as soon as I removed my panties. I dropped them on my dress.
Swallowing sounded loud. I usually took my bra off first. I stood there, hesitating. So literal minded, and he roused my hidden submissive streak. I’d acid-glare at anyone who expected me to serve him coffee, but give me a man like this in private? Hell, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for him.
I hoped he wanted me to do plenty. The thought of getting a taste of his cock made me drool. Another loud swallow. Get on with it. I pulled my bra off and tossed it on the panties, sure I wouldn’t get points for folding my underwear. The man was waiting.
“You can leave your shoes on.”
That was a relief. The high-heeled sandals helped my confidence about my body. My legs and heart-shaped ass looked good when I wore heels, downgraded to dumpy when I walked flat-footed. When I lived with Josh, I walked on tip-toe any time I went to the bathroom without shoes. Plus, even though the labyrinth and the room were air conditioned, every time I went outdoors, to go from my suite to the next building, my sweat glands responded to the sauna-furnace of the tropics. Even freshly showered, I wasn’t sure it was possible to avoid foot odor here.
I had to shut up my mind and do what the man told me. I took another step toward him, wobbling on my heels. Hell, I hadn’t been unsteady in shoes since my first times playing dress up. As a short girl, I knew these things were going to be a key accessory for life.
He offered me his hand. I grabbed it like a lifeline. He met my eyes and grinned.
He pulled me over his lap.
I gasped. Relief flooded through me. I’d dreaded taking the last step and having to try to be graceful putting my big body across his lap. He’d spared me the agony.
I pressed my face against the arm of the chair.
“Get comfortable.”
I grabbed the chair arm and held on like I was about to go for a carnival ride. Close enough.
His big hand smacked down on my ass.
Oh. Okay. This was happening. This hot stranger was spanking my bare bottom.
He smacked me again and again, alternating cheeks. His stinging slaps grabbed my attention and finally shut off my thinking.
With his big hand on the job, I didn’t feel too big. He covered each cheek. My ass burned. He kept a steady rhythm and I humped against him, powerless in my heat.
He was a master.
My ass felt warm. My cheeks tingled. Each blow made me tingle. I felt him from my toes to the top of my head.
The spanker had me. He had me completely. I let myself go, nothing existed anymore except getting my ass spanked. I was free at last.
He beat my ass like a drum.
The driving rhythm took me and the hot pulses went straight to my sex. He knew how to work the sweet spot on each cheek, pushing me into and through wild hot pain that lifted me into elation. I soared under the master’s hands.
My tears flowed. It wasn’t the stinging blows that got to me, it was gratitude. I felt so happy, so accepted, so good. I felt sexy as me. I didn’t need a role, I didn’t need clothes, I didn’t need anything. My ass burned. The fire went to my core and made me molten.
He slowed his spanks, bringing me down in a gradual, easing rhythm that let me land without being jarred.
Damn, he was good.
“Well done, Cleo.”
I enjoyed his praise, but I hadn’t done anything. His fingers slid along my pussy, dipped into my juice, slipped up to my clit and gave me a jolt.
“So responsive. Get on your knees.”
His strong hands supported me as I rose from my ass-up position and folded to kneel before him. I couldn’t have stood up for long, even without the heels.
I felt squishy, and my clit poked out eager for more attention. I was so turned on.
“Do you want a reward for taking your spanking so well?”
“Uh. I enjoyed the spanking. You don’t have to give me a reward.” What was I saying? “Um, if you do want to reward me, may I serve you please?” Better. Clumsy, but better. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say cock, as in, ‘may I please, please, please suck your cock,’ to this man. His elegance unnerved me. Being surrounded by oafs hadn’t prepared me for serving a real man, one who looked like Caesar with the power of Zeus.
Amusement made his eyes sparkle.
“How would you like to serve me, beautiful Cleo.”
Oh. He called me beautiful. I wasn’t even paying for this and the guy was making my dreams come true. Of course, this man wouldn’t do such things for money. Did he pay the club for this? For the possibility of making ‘qualified’ fantasies come true? I couldn’t work it out. It seemed unlikely that a powerful man would spend his time sitting in a room waiting for a random woman, a nobody like me, to choose his door. But perhaps the club was as private as it claimed. Maybe that would make a few days of sexual roulette worthwhile. It was an opportunity for an erotic vacation without scandal. No paparazzi, no incriminating pictures or allegations to surface later.
“I’d like that so much, please. What do you want me to call you, please.”
“Tell me, Cleo, what do you want to call me? What does your heart long to call me?”
Possibilities raced through my mind giving me a fever.
“Master.”
“Yes. That’s good. That fits between us. You shall call me master, though you needn’t apply it to every sentence.”
“Yes, thank you, Master.” I wasn’t big on formality. We were going to get along fine. Before my mind could go spinning off on something else, he unzipped his supple slacks and freed his cock. It was as thick as I imagined. My mouth flooded.
“Suck me.” His eyes glittered. His sensual lips curved. “By the way, I have current test results on file. I have a clean bill of health. You’re welcome to call the clinic to check, or to wrap your candy.” He opened a box on the desk and pulled out a condom.
If it was a friend of mine in this situation, I’d tell her to be sure. Men lied all the time to get sex. It wasn’t likely he would, given that everyone had to use valid ID to apply, and the website had a whole section on health testing compliance, so the risk seemed minimal.
Bottom line, I wanted to taste him.
“I want my reward bare, please.”
“Suck it.”
I devoured his cock. I wolfed him into my mouth like I was starving.
He gasped.
His big hand caged my skull, but I didn’t need to be held to a job I relished. I siphoned on his cock head and drew him deep, his helmet head dragging across my tongue. I held his hips and pushed my lips all the way down his shaft, taking him to his root. His pubes ticked my nose, and he throbbed in my throat.
He held me there, arched his hips and ground into my face.
It felt delicious to be controlled. His hands gripped my hair and he moved my head up and down his shaft, using me to pleasure his cock from base to tip. I gasped for breath with each stroke before he could push it back through the tight ring of my gullet and complete his skull fuck.
Nothing else existed, only him using me as I teetered on my knees, a socket for his cock.
He mastered himself as much as me, as he stroked his full length deep, slid it across my tongue until his tip was at my lips, and plunged deep again. He tantalized me with it, slowing down at key moments, at my lips, and at the tight ring of my throat. His glans throbbed on my tongue, oozing sweetness.
Varying his rhythm, he kept me alert to the feeling of his cock taking me, running my breath. I gasped on the back strokes and got heady when he ground deep inside my throat.
His thrusts became insistent.
“Get ready. I want you to swallow my load.”
I nodded as well as I could with his cock stuffed deep into my face.
He pulled my hair right to the edge of pain, making me gasp, expanding my throat. He shoved his cock in all the way and growled, arching, bumping my nose, spurting deep, unloading his balls into me.
I swallowed as fast as I could, eager to drink all of my master’s essence.
“Wonderful, Cleo. So good. You please me well, beautiful.”
He withdrew. My jaw ached from taking that thick monster, but I didn’t mind. I felt gratified that he allowed me to serve him.
Smiling, he drew me up and kissed me. He helped me to my feet and guided me into the shadows. Fear clutched my heart. What was there?
He laid me on a bed. My master kissed my lips. I closed my eyes, surrendered to his lips, his tongue. He took me. All his attention focused on my mouth and made me surrender. I arched toward him, my breasts, belly and hips aching to feel more of him.
He pulled me into his arms and held me. I found my peace in his arms.
“Rest now, Cleo.”
“Yes, Master.” The pure surrender of letting myself be his, if only for my time in the room, allowed me to doze.
He awakened me with a kiss.
His hands slid a condom on his hard cock without missing a beat, pinching the tip of it so there’d be room for his seed. My eyes widened.
I’d thought he wouldn’t fuck me, and I’d controlled my disappointment so not to ruin the afterglow of getting to suck him to completion.
Now he was going to make my desire come true all the way. Self-conscious, I spread my heavy thighs. I wanted him.
“Mm, Cleo, I want you. Get ready, beautiful. I need to ride you hard.”
The man was everything I ever wanted in a lover. He was a freaking mind-reader. The knower, my knower. I chose the right room.
