by Carol Storm
Kick howled for mercy with shameless pleasure. She had tried so hard to reach the Master, but he remained rock hard, impervious to her pleading. All she could do was beg for his mercy, sobbing and sniffling as she slumped defeated into a shuddering, shaking climax.
When the spanking was over, he lifted her over his shoulder and carried her into a nearby room. It was bare, except for a big soft bed and the lights which he turned off and on at his pleasure. When she was lying face down, unable to see his face, the Master gave her a very tender massage with soothing cream. His fingers caressed every inch of her flame red buttocks. He purred warmly, kissing all the knobs of her spine. He seemed to relish the way her skinny little body gradually relaxed, growing peaceful as her sniffles and sighs died away.
“I still don’t understand about the handcuffs,” Kick said cautiously. She loved the way the relaxing massage had soothed her pains. But she was still very curious about the Master.
“Think of it as a lesson in self-reliance.” The big man lying next to her in the dark sounded very father-knows-best. “You’re a nice girl, but you’re obviously not from the street. You’re the type of girl who likes danger. I want you to be able to take care of yourself when I’m not around.”
“Why should you care?” Kick didn’t like the Master lecturing her. Her worst nightmare was that he would try to take over her real life the same way he ruled over her fantasies.
“Don’t question, Slave. Simply obey.” Kenny kissed the deep hollow of her lower back. He went on massaging her tenderly, soothing her rounded buttocks with his knowing fingers, pressing more and more gentle kisses up and down her spine. Before he realized it, Kick was rolling over on her back and the two of them were making love. He barely remembered to turn out the lights in time. Instead of showing his slave more discipline, Kenny Marigold lost himself, sliding deep into the body of a willing woman who didn’t even know his name.
“God, that was good,” Kick sighed drowsily afterwards. Her cool, slender hand trailed lazily across his broad, warm chest in the dark. “I don’t think I could do it any more today. It hurts my pride to admit it, though.”
The Master chuckled, clearly relaxed after sex. “How do you think I feel, driving around in a panel truck, pretending to be a repair man for rich white folks down in Coral Gables?”
Kick saw her opening. “You’re from North Miami, aren’t you?” she asked. North Miami was solidly Cuban, a part of the city her father had always shielded her from. Yet, with his campaign in trouble, Kick knew they were both going to have to start making some changes.
“I’m from Hialeah,” the Master told her. “My family has lived there for almost fifty years. We were important people in Cuba, before Castro. But we’re not poor in this country, either. I’ve worked hard to take care of my people. I’m not a repair man in real life.”
“You’re a proud man, Master.” Kick stroked his chest shyly in the dark. “That’s good.”
“Sometimes it is.” The man beside her made a deep male noise of contentment, obviously enjoying the coolness of her hand on his body. “These days I’ve got my emotions under control. So my pride works for me, not against me. But in the old days, well, that’s a different story. Guys used to push my buttons, just to see me explode.”
“Was that about being Cuban?” Kick loved the way they were talking in the quiet time after sex. Having a Cuban lover didn’t bother her. In fact, it rather excited her. The girls at school always used to whisper about the exotic allure of Cuban men. They called it Hialeah heat.
“It was about not being Cuban. Let’s leave it there for right now.”
“We all have buttons people can push,” Kick said soothingly. “Sometimes you just have to take a deep breath and let it pass.”
“Sure.” The Master lifted her hand and began kissing her slender fingers in the dark. “I’m not talking any more about my feelings today. Okay?”
“Okay.” Kick decided to take one more chance. “Could I see your face?”
“No,” the Master said. “But, if you agree to something different for our next meeting, I’ll let you explore my face with your fingers all you want. I want you to know I’m not scared, or scarred, or secretly an alligator or something.”
Kick giggled. “What do I have to agree to?”
He pinched her nipple, stinging her into alertness. “To whatever I want.”
“Ow!” Kick knew what the Master wanted. She rolled over, her perky boobs teasing his broad chest while he held her above him. She lowered her face to his, kissing him in the dark and exploring his lips, noting every curve and crease. But soon she was outmaneuvered by his demanding and plundering response. His tongue aroused her, awakened her desire. She framed his face with her fingers, cleverly making it into a caress instead of an exploration. High cheekbones, lean jaw, a strong chin she fingered first and then kissed without apology. The Master didn’t stop her hands or mouth from roaming.
“Thank you,” she said at last, rolling off him with a sigh. Kick had felt the hard male length of the Master’s huge cock against her thighs while she was pinned in place above him. But she didn’t regret her restraint. The Master needed to know that she could be patient, too.
“Don’t thank me yet,” the Master warned. “Our next meeting will be very different.”
* * * *
“People are still coming in, but let’s get started. We need to talk about the next phase.”
As she called the meeting to order, Kick studied the young volunteers. They were college kids, most of them younger than she was. Some of them were holding hands, obviously having signed up to canvas the neighborhoods with a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Kick ignored the usual pangs of emptiness deep down in her gut. She was a decision maker. She didn’t need someone to hold hands with in public. Besides, she wasn’t some repressed Victorian spinster. She might not have much of a love life, but she definitely had a sex life! Separating her life between the good Kick and the bad Kick made her a more effective leader.
“We’ve all done good work in the past week,” Kick praised. “Hitting the college hang outs, going to the usual Coral Gables’ functions. Walking the quiet, tree-lined streets and ringing doorbells. But that’s not good enough. That’s our comfort zone. With demographics changing city wide, we need to develop new strategies to appeal to our new neighbors.”
“Anybody speak Spanish?” cried a voice. There was a smattering of nervous laughter.
“Cut the crap,” Kick admonished. “More than two million people live in the Miami area. Two thirds of them are Latino. But it’s more than numbers.” She pointed at a couple of young volunteers. “If you bothered to ask them, Theresa and Raoul could tell you that their families have lived in Miami for almost fifty years. They speak better English than you, Terry.”
“You can say that again,” piped up Theresa.
“But we need everyone,” Kick replied, her sharp voice cutting through the laughter. “We need rich white boys like you, Terry, just as bad as we need scholarship students like Theresa. We need to be a team, if we’re going to go after the vote that counts – the Haitian vote.”
A murmur of excitement went through the small crowd. Haitians were the newest and fastest growing immigrant population in Miami. Winning them over would be a real challenge.
“I’ve made up new teams,” Kick continued, “and in a moment you’ll be meeting your new partners. Each of you will be paired with a volunteer from the Haitian Youth League. I’ve been working with them to help get money for a new facility downtown. I’ve been using my connections with the Sisters of St. Ann to attract new Cuban volunteers as well. They are ready to come on board, if we are ready to have them.”
“But can’t we go around with our old partners?” asked a pretty blonde in the back.
“Don’t you guys ever think about anything but sex?” Kick asked. That got a big laugh. But without warning, Terry the big football player asked the one question on everyone’s mind.
“What
about your old man? My mother’s furious about what he did to your mother.”
Kick felt the silence like an accusation.
“Look,” she said, “my father isn’t perfect. If he were, he wouldn’t need me to run his campaign for him!” There were a few smiles, but not enough. “All of you have private lives, yes? Things you wouldn’t want your parents to know about?” Now there was giggling and a few lewd comments. Kick smiled. “Well, so do I. So does my father. The Sullivan family has always stood for tolerance and fairness. We always will, no matter how much dirt the other guys throw at us. We’ll keep our noses clean if you promise to do the same.”
“I hate to agree with a rich frat boy from Coral Gables,” Theresa Gonzales said. “But the fact is, people in Little Havana really loved your mother. Maybe she played bridge with Terry’s mother, but she went to church with my mother. All the old-time Cubans down on Eighth Street think she was a saint. We all respect you, Miss Kathleen. But now that your mama’s gone, it won’t take more than a whisper to bring down the whole campaign.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Kick looked around her with a tight smile. “We’ve all got to trust each other or we won’t survive. Now let’s meet our new volunteers.” One by one, the new faces came in, brown or black faces, entering a room full of wealthy whites and long-settled Miami Cubans. Kick sensed a lot of fear behind the polite smiles, but some curiosity too. Little by little, the new teams came together.
Kick enjoyed the moment, even if she had no-one to share it with. She was looking just like the well-behaved young woman her mother had raised her to be, wearing a dark green suit with pearls and white lace at the neck and cuffs. Of course, she wasn’t too much of a prude to show off her legs in the little green skirt that went with the classic Chanel. Yet her style of dress and her crisp manner were so upscale and respectable that a lot of volunteers still called her Miss Kathleen or Miss Sullivan, even when she pleasantly requested that they call her Kick. Watching the volunteers make new friends made her feel old and lonely.
There was something else. The dark, good-looking boys from the Haitian and Cuban neighborhoods stirred the other Kick, awoke her carefully hidden cravings. Each time she saw one of them walking in the door, her stomach tightened, her loins tingled. The Master was from Hialeah, and Hialeah was a Cuban neighborhood. What would happen if . . .
“Hey there, baby doll! Are you looking for volunteers?”
“Red Kelly! Holy Mother of God, how are you?” Kick jumped down from the desk and ran across the room, throwing her arms around the red-faced, silver-haired man. Years ago in Boston, Red Kelly had been both her father’s right-hand man and her political mentor. As soon as the young volunteers were out of the way, Kick welcomed Red into her private office, anxious to show him how much she had accomplished.
The silver-haired man whistled appreciatively. “City maps, census reports, everything right on the desk. You’ve got the eye, kid. I always said so. Computers can only do so much.”
Kick laughed. “Computers are not the enemy, Red. But I like the old ways, too. You taught me everything I know!”
Red Kelly smiled, his bright blue eyes misty with tears. “Anything for you, doll. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. I’d rather have you for a daughter than some football-throwing dummy for a son. Even a dummy like Sean.”
“Sean was my hero,” Kick spoke softly. “The way things ended doesn’t change that.”
“He was a dreamer,” Red said roughly. “Choosing the Army Rangers over law school. Going to Iraq instead of marrying you. He wasn’t smart like you, Kick. But I still hoped – ”
“Sean had beautiful dreams,” Kick insisted gently. “He loved helping people. So do I. But I’m no hero. I’m just a back-room politician, a dirty ward-heeler at heart, like you. Now let me show you where you fit into the Sullivan operation.”
A harsh voice interrupted them. “All right, who let that Irish bum in here?”
“Dad, you’re over an hour late,” Kick scolded. “Red just got here, and I’m sure he got stuck with a regular cab from Miami International. Weren’t you supposed to arrange a limo?”
“Loosen up, baby girl, will you? Everything’s going to be all right now that Red’s here.” Joe Sullivan clapped his old friend on the back. The two men embraced, and then Joe winked and pointed at his daughter. “Just like her mother, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, only better-looking,” Red Kelly grinned. “With much longer legs.”
“The two of you are going to have to cut out the sexist talk if you want to appeal to young women voters,” Kick said sternly. “Right now my self-discipline and professionalism are the only thing keeping us in the race. It’s all very well to be charming, and one of the guys, but Dad, you’ve got to show some self-control. You’re eating too much, drinking too much, and it’s clear you don’t have the will-power to resist any of the other temptations, either.” Just then the cell phone in Kick’s Prada bag rang noisily.
“Room 502 at the Miami Carlton. Dressed for business, like a lady.”
“Yes, I can do that. Thank you.” Kick dropped the cell phone back in her bag.
“Are you all right, baby?” Joe Sullivan had been scowling at his daughter’s harsh words, but now he looked at her closely. “You’ve been working awful hard. Maybe you need a rest.”
“Yeah.” Kick felt dazed. Automatically, she lied to her father. “That was the Seniors group you were supposed to address this morning, wondering why you didn’t show up. I told them I would stop by myself this afternoon and reschedule the event. You will be there.”
“Yes, Kick.” Joe hesitated. “Sure there’s nothing the matter, baby? You look so pale.”
“Sure she looks pale,” Red Kelly said gruffly. “She works hard night and day. Say, what does a fellow have to do to get a drink around here?”
Joe Sullivan beamed. “Step into my office, pal.” He paused. “I won’t miss the next event, Kick. I promise!”
“You better not.” Kick knew the boys were going to have a drink without her. It was a silly male ritual, and she knew it was foolish to feel so left out. Instead, she marched off with her head in the air, trying to hide the fact that she was rushing off to serve the Master the same way her father had skipped a campaign event to spend the morning screwing some young woman. The difference was that Kick could keep things separate. She knew how to keep her cool.
* * * *
Kick kept her cool as she walked across the hotel lobby. Having sunglasses on helped. The Dior shades gave her a sense of privileged anonymity, and so did the vintage straw hat with the black velvet band. It matched the black sash of her stunning yellow Ungaro dress. But in spite of the luxurious surroundings, the designer clothes, and all the other trappings of wealth and power, her slim white hands were already trembling as she got on the elevator.
Already she was wanting it, craving the thrill of sexual submission like a potent drug. Each time there were new rules and protocols that needed to be obeyed, so many precautions. But this meeting was on unfamiliar territory, in a swanky hotel not far from the legendary intersection of Miami Avenue and Flagler Street. It was crazy, having sex so close to Miami’s political center. Kick was scared to be seen, but even more scared to disobey. The Master made danger and excitement a part of every thrilling sexual encounter. Would it be sex this time, or a spanking, or some new combination that had her begging for punishment out loud? By this time Kick’s manicured hands were shaking so badly, she could hardly unlock the door.
“Drop the hat on the floor.” The deep male voice came from behind her, running up Kick’s spine like a delicious shiver of anticipation. She stood in the center of the huge room, her stiletto heels sinking deep into the thick carpet, holding her breath while she undressed. It was exciting to feel the eyes of the unseen man on her slender back. She stripped quickly, with trembling hands, right down to her bra and panties. But it was vital that she keep her eyes locked right in front of her, looking neither left nor right. Ki
ck’s long-held breath exploded from her in a rush as she felt his long, strong fingers deftly unhooking her bra.
“Did I give you permission to turn your head?”
“No, Master.” Damn! Kick was excited by the thought of punishment, but she wished she had gotten more than just a glimpse of the Master’s magnificent sun-bronzed torso. She wanted to see more than just a bare brown shoulder, or the thick black hair on his buff chest, or even the mysterious gold medallion that hung around his neck. She wanted to know more about him, to see his face. But now she was in for a real spanking.
“Step on the hat.”
“Yes, Master.” Soft words became a mindless giggle as Kick trashed the vintage hat. This was new, yet somehow she knew that whatever she wore would soon be crushed or battered or torn into fluttering shreds. Her stiletto heels punched neat little holes in the hat. Then the Master kicked her shoes right off her feet, holding her cool, slim shoulders in a firm grip. By now Kick couldn’t stop laughing. So crazy, that trashing her own clothes should turn her on! But incredibly, she came with the Master’s large, warm hands still on her shoulders. The feeling of being controlled, mixed with the rough texture of crushed straw under her bare feet, made Kick shoot quickly into shivering release. She loved being wild under the Master’s firm control. Not that she wanted to over-analyze. She just wanted to go right on kicking that crazy hat to pieces!
“That’s enough.” The Master checked her pleasure with a curt command. “You’ve been a naughty girl lately, Miss Kick. Asking questions and probing, trying to get under my skin. It’s time for the blindfold.”
“The blindfold?” Kick squeaked. She wanted the blindfold because she knew the Master always covered her eyes right before sex. She was frantic for the rush of pleasure. Of course, once she was blindfolded the Master would probably want to spank her little butt. But then he would surely fuck her senseless on the bed.
A deep male laugh, warm breath on the back of her neck. “Yes, I’m going to fuck you. But not yet.” The last three words were as hard and unyielding as the bars of a prison cell. Kick felt hypnotized by a potent potion of dread and delight. His deep voice held her in place, while his hands left her shoulders and began roaming over her small, pert breasts. There was something embarrassing about the eagerness of her body, the aching stiffness of her tight little nipples. Yet it dawned on her that she was her real self now, not a pretend schoolgirl or a slut. Her breasts ached with the desire to see the Master, to know him fully. He flicked their swollen tips. The sensation sent her to the point of release. Kick wanted to know the Master. She wanted to swoon backwards into his strong embrace, to look up trustingly into his face while the hardness of his desire pressed firmly into the rounded curves of her behind.
