by Alison Tyler
He took my hand down from my face and traced the tracks from my silent tears.
“We won’t go tonight.”
I looked at him, at the brightness in his dark eyes shining even in the gray light, at the serious look on his striking face. I wondered why he was taking so much time with me. I’d only known him a short period, but I’d thought I had nailed him. A man who got what he wanted and moved on. Had he simply not finished with me? Or did he see something in me that held his interest longer than usual?
I know my eyes were pleading when I stared at him. I wanted to please him, but my whole body was shaking.
“We’ll get there,” he said, nodding, more to himself than to me. “Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll get there.”
Now the tears came faster. I was letting him down. Visions of what he’d promised me paraded through my mind: Nate displaying me. Cropping me in front of an audience. Hurting me. And while I wanted every single image that he’d described, I was so worried that I’d let him down, fail him in some way, embarrass him. That fear immobilized me.
“You make me want to move fast,” he said, now bringing me up so that my legs were over his lap, cradled in the safe embrace of his strong arms. “You make me want to do everything at once.” Again I felt as if he were speaking more to himself than to me, as if explaining the situation out loud might help him to process exactly what was going on. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook tonight.”
Had I started to relax? Had I let the whiskey work through me, the fire of it calming me?
“Garrett’s out until four, at least. Lois’s over at her boyfriend’s. It’s you and me, and I promised you I’d take care of you tonight. I don’t ever go back on my promises, Samantha. Do you understand that?”
I hadn’t spoken in so long that my voice was hoarse. “Yes, Nate.”
“Tonight I’m ‘Daddy.’ Can you do that?”
Had I thought he was letting me off easy? I closed my eyes as a fresh wave of fear spread through me. “Yes, Daddy.”
“All right, girl. Go get your nightgown on and meet me back here.”
I dressed quickly. Taking off my work clothes. Slipping into a silky short blue-and-white-checked pajama set. I didn’t stop to look at my reflection, didn’t pause to guess what Nate had in mind. I hurried back to the living room, and then stood at the side of the sofa, waiting for my next instruction.
“Come here, Samantha,” he said, and there was no trace of a smile on his face or in his eyes. He’d turned the television off and lit the tall ivory candles that stood on the mantle. There were enough of the towering tapers to create more light than the TV had, but the room was still dim and cavelike.
“Over my lap.”
I didn’t look at his face again, simply crawled into position, knowing somehow that no matter what he’d said, he was disappointed I’d let him down tonight. This was why he was punishing me. Or soon would be.
Nate’s fingers caught the waistband of my pajama shorts and black cotton panties and pulled both down my thighs. I thought he was going to start spanking me. My body was tensed for the first blow. But he didn’t.
“Now, angel, I want you to tell me one of your fantasies. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” I hesitated. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Your favorite fantasy. One that you’ve never told anyone before, because you’re embarrassed by it.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered again, squeezing my eyes shut tight as I tried to think what to say. In my silence, Nate ran his hand over my naked rear, and then right when I was about to start speaking, he tripped his fingertips down the crack of my ass, softly touching my asshole.
“Now.”
Oh, Jesus. He was going to be doing things to me while I spoke. I got that now. I did my best to tell him. It wasn’t difficult for me to think of something to say. Confessing fantasies was what I did every night on Lois’s old typewriter. “I’m in a school,” I said, “like a private school.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Nate murmured, and now he had my cheeks spread apart, and I could feel him simply looking down at me, inspecting me. I wanted to hide, to burrow into the cushions of the sofa, but I held myself as still as possible and continued.
“And I’ve done something wrong—”
“Of course you have.”
“Each time it’s different. Smoking behind the building. Making out with another girl. Drinking beer in a car in the parking lot.”
“What is it this time?”
“Reading dirty stories in a book that’s banned on campus.”
Nate had licked his fingertips and was slowly slipping one, then two, inside of me, gently finger-fucking my asshole. The pleasure was immediate, but I could feel my cheeks flaming at the same time. Shame floored me.
“And what happens to you?” Nate coaxed.
I tried to be offhand. I was sure he could see where I was going. “You know, I’m sent to the principal’s office—”
“Wearing what?”
“Schoolgirl skirt, white socks, patent leather shoes. White shirt, black cardigan.” I could say this fast, because the outfit was the same every time.
“What does the principal look like?”
“You.”
Nate removed his hand and spanked me five times in a row. He’d caught the flippancy in my voice. But I explained quickly. “Different each time,” I explained quickly. “I’ll see someone at a store, or in a movie, or driving next to me, and I’ll cast that person the next time I do this—”
“Do what?” He knew. But he wanted to hear me say the words.
“Fantasize. Touch myself.”
“Go on,” Nate instructed, but before I could, I felt something wet against my asshole, and realized that while I’d been dressing, Nate had gotten out a bag of toys. He slowly lubed me up, his fingertips skating around and around. I tried to continue.
“He says all the usual things, you know. I’ve been caught. Could be expelled. Whatever. Something clichéd, I know. But I don’t hear a word, because on the desk is this wicked-looking paddle. Wooden, with holes in it. And I know from experience what that’s going to feel like, how much it’s going to hurt, how loudly I’m going to cry. And I understand that I ought to be paying attention to the lecture, but all I see is that paddle, and all I hear are my own impending sobs.”
Slowly, Nate began to slide something inside of me, and I stopped speaking. They were balls, on a string, and I found myself shaking my head. He was touching me so gently, taking care of me, and I wondered how he knew that I’d like this sort of thing. Was I that transparent? Still, as if I had to pay for the pleasure, embarrassment, guilt, and shame built up inside me. I felt so exposed—revealing this fantasy while Nate was playing with me, teasing me.
“Don’t stop, Samantha. Keep talking. No matter what I’m doing.”
“Yes, Nate,” I said, and then quickly, “Yes, Daddy.” I tried my best to focus. “He puts me over his lap and lifts up my skirt. He takes my panties down to my ankles, and then he spanks me, as hard as I’ve ever been spanked, with that cruel paddle. And I’m crying from the very start—”
Nate slipped another ball inside me.
“—and he says he’s sorry he has to be so strict with me—with all of us girls—but that we have to understand that he truly does have our best interests at heart. He knows not to stop a punishment session at the first sob. Because girls can fake their tears. He knows how to make a real impression, how to take us beyond our limits. Or where we think our limits are.”
“And where are your limits, Samantha?”
He wasn’t letting me get away with anything. If I could focus on the story, I could forget that Nate was sliding these balls inside my asshole, one after the other. But when he spoke, I was right back in the living room, upended over his lap, my pussy a lake of sex juices. My cheeks cherry-hued.
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly.
“In your story.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, trying to stay on topi
c, to please Nate. “It changes. Always changes. Sometimes, I put my hands back to stop him, and he has to bend me over the desk, get something else to use. A cane. A crop. His belt. It depends on what I need.”
Nate lifted me off his lap now, surprising me, and pulled my panties and shorts all the way off. Then he bent me over the arm of the black leather sofa and got behind me. I heard the sound of his buckle, and then felt the warmth of his cock against my skin. “What do you need now?”
As he spoke, he started to fuck me, and as he fucked me, he began to pull the balls out of my ass. One at a time, so that I couldn’t even think. But I knew better than to stay silent. Already, Nate was training me. My mind worked furiously trying to figure out what he wanted me to say. What the right answer was. I knew that Nate wouldn’t be satisfied with a simple fuck session. God, I wouldn’t either. But I didn’t know what he expected from me.
“What I always need,” I murmured, failing, I knew as I spoke.
Nate laughed. His voice was dark. He was slamming inside of me, and the beads were gone, and I felt emptied. I understood he was going to take my ass before he was through, and I also knew that he wasn’t even close to the finale.
“Punishment,” I said, my chin to my chest, words almost too soft to hear. “Discipline.”
Nate agreed. “You do need discipline in your life. But what do you think you need right now?”
I felt as we were playing a part in a script. No, a story. And suddenly I understood. He’d read my pages. The ones I’d been banging away on Lois’s typewriter. He was creating his own version of several of my X-rated scenarios put together. And since he already knew what I wanted, he’d know if I lied, if I told him something else. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
Like magic, he had some thin little switch in his hand, and before I could breathe, before I could beg, he was using it on me, on the underside of my ass, the tops of my thighs. The pain cut me, cut through me. He worked with finesse, slicing that mean implement to the right or the left before landing a perfect blow that made me cry out. And when he thought I was done, he dragged me over his lap a final time, not for any teasing finger play this time, but for a ferocious over-the-knee hand-spanking that left me keening for breath and sobbing without any hesitation, without embarrassment or fear. Sobbing for real. Nate understood. If he kept up long enough, if he pushed hard enough, I’d forget who I was or what I wanted. I’d become his willing partner, his malleable plaything. Or simply His.
I was liquid as he positioned me how he wanted me, dragging me down on the carpet to fuck my ass, reaming me with his cock while I set my head on that soft old shag and wept.
“Does Daddy always know what you need?” Nate hissed in my ear.
“Yes,” I choked out. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Then you ought to trust me in the future.” He was still on me, in me, holding me down with his weight. “I gave you a reprieve tonight, Samantha. A get-out-of-jail free card. I won’t take pity on you again.” He came in a series of thrusts that shattered me. He pulled out, and I thought he would leave me there, a mess on the floor, to try to gather myself together. But he didn’t. He lifted me in his arms and carried me to the bathroom. He stripped the top of my pajamas over my head, so that I was totally naked, and then took off his own clothes and ushered me into the shower with him. I couldn’t wash myself, could barely move, but Nate seemed to understand. He did everything for me, lathering me up, rinsing me off, and then when we were done, toweling me dry.
Back in his room, the instructions continued. “You’ll go to sleep tonight with my cock in your mouth,” he said, his voice so deep. “Like a pacifier. Suck it sweetly, girl, and I’ll take care of you in the morning. Suck it like a good girl should.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I said, as I took up my position. Like a good girl. Even if we both knew I’d never actually be a good girl, I could always pretend.
Chapter Twelve:
The Beginning
Picture me, after years of experiencing no—truly zero—satisfying sex, now suddenly overwhelmed by this brand-new world. New job. New men. New sensation of having my fantasies slowly come true. Or maybe not all that slowly …
Pleasure was difficult to get used to at first. I’d grown accustomed to having Byron angry with me most of the time. Of having to constantly regain those points I was forever losing.
When I was living with Byron, I had learned not to speak my mind. But now I didn’t have to hide. At work I made sure to look people in the eye, to be bold, and quickly I found myself gaining new friends. At home, once Lois had moved out, I spent my time redecorating her room—the candy-pink walls made me feel as if I were living in a bottle of Pepto. I painted at night and searched for flea-market finds on the weekends. No angels for me. Gargoyles are much more my speed. And then there was my writing. Lois had taken her typewriter with her. But Nate said not to worry.
“Can’t use a typewriter, anyway, Samantha,” he told me. “You need a computer.”
“Lots of famous people have relied on typewriters,” I insisted, as if I were a purist, not wooed by newfangled technology. But the truth was that I couldn’t afford a computer. There was no fucking way. I could barely afford anything. The fact that I got my coffee for free at work was a huge savings. I’d arrived in the apartment with no cash. It was going to take me awhile to build up a comfortable cushion.
He left the room for a moment, then came back with a battered laptop. “Mine,” he said, handing over the computer. “I had it for school, but I never use the thing. The printer’s slow, but it works.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, you need something you can work on. And you need to start sending out your writing.”
This wasn’t what I’d expected. “What do you mean?”
“I read it,” he said, “and I know I shouldn’t have.” This was rare for Nate, admitting any sort of fault or flaw. “But I was curious, and you hadn’t said not to. Hadn’t really tried to hide the pages, or anything. They were right there, in a folder on the coffee table. And the truth is,” he licked his bottom lip as he looked at me, “it’s good. I don’t mean that to give you a big head or anything. But it’s damn good. And while Garrett and I are out partying or hanging with friends, or whatever, you’re in there, writing, every night. I know you are. That’s why it’s good.”
“I can’t send it,” I said softly. I hadn’t been writing for anyone. Except me. I’d been writing because I couldn’t not write. The compulsion had started when I was still working for the screenwriter. Whenever I had a free moment, I’d slip paper into the typewriter and start creating a story. Flashing back to Robert, to anyone, to a fantasy that would get me through the day.
“You know what I like,” he said, “you’ve seen my bookshelf and the magazines. And the movies on my shelf. You know that I’m not a novice where porn is involved. Believe me when I say that I know what I’m talking about. Your writing has this sort of breathlessness to it. You can tell there’s a soul behind the words.”
I felt myself blushing, but I shook my head.
“You need to send it out. And don’t give me any bullshit about rejections. I’m in the business of being rejected. Hollywood is built on rejections. Every time I go for a job, I know that 99 percent of the time I’m going to be shot down. You will, too. So you have to suck it up and send out your work.”
I was shocked by how he was talking to me. We’d fallen … not into a routine, exactly, but into an “arrangement.” He and Garrett and I. Garrett’s part of the deal was that he never discussed our two nights together, and if he occasionally sat by my side on the sofa to watch an old movie, if he every so often put his hand on my thigh or his arm around my waist, that was fine. But he still wasn’t won over. Wasn’t sure. Wasn’t comfortable. Nate and I never played when Garrett was around. We were like two kids waiting for the folks to leave so we could have the run of the house. On nights when Garrett was catering, Nate and I would find each other. I knew he saw other wome
n—fucked other women. I didn’t care. (Or at least I told myself I didn’t.) I wasn’t asking for any sort of commitment. I was only asking for release. He hadn’t spoken about clubbing again, although I sensed he had plans for me. As it stood, he simply would come into my room or lead me to his and subject me to whatever twisted fancies were awake in his mind.
He liked toys. That was one of my favorite things about him. He liked to surprise me with something I hadn’t seen before, something I’d never thought of. A gag. A butt plug. A dildo. (Pedestrian concepts to many adventurous lovers, but brand-new to my bed.) He was open and willing and completely unshockable. I felt I could have asked him for anything and he would simply take care of me. But I rarely ever had to ask. Nate understood. If I behaved flippantly or played the part of a brat, he’d start with a spanking. If I was coy, looking at him from under my long dark lashes, he’d respond in his own flirtatious way, inventing new games, creating new rules. I never knew what to expect. I was constantly off balance, and I relished every teetering, breathtaking moment.
Nate might ask me for coffee, only to take me out behind the café and fuck me up against the rear wall of the building. He might suggest a drive, only to twine his fingers in my hair and pull me down to his lap so that I could give him head while he maneuvered us along the Pacific Coast Highway. If we went to see a movie, it was inevitable we’d have sex in the back row. Even grocery shopping was far from safe. On a late-night run to the twenty-four-hour store, he bought only sex-charged items: whipped cream, chocolate syrup, honey. And while the checker rang us up, he explained loudly to me how he was going to use every item. “You’ll be on your stomach, and I’ll start drizzling the syrup down your spine, down to your sweet cheeks …” God, he was literally obsessed with my ass, which he stroked possessively in public or private.
Nothing was ever what it appeared to be. If he started an evening off with a sweet, gentle kiss, I knew I was ultimately in for something dark … something dangerous. And if the evening began with pain, I could expect to find myself cradled in an embrace that for Nate was pure tenderness. Even if it still involved my bound or captured body.
