Her hips sensually circled, hips pushed back, seeking the cock that wasn’t there, seeking the whip, the sting, the burn, the pain timed with the incremental climb toward her release.
Crack, Crack, Crack. Again, she shrieked, stiffening, the only movement the tremors in her legs and the pulsating jerk of her pelvis. The woman groaned, relaxing her back, her bottom pushed outward, still moving, her panting and groaning.
Caroline expelled the breath she’d been holding while watching the video. “Christ! Look at me,” she whispered, her own hips thrusting, her pussy clenching on air and desire.
She put the partially melted ice cream in the bowl on the coffee table, ripping her sweats and panties off. Her finger slid between the slick lips of her labia and found her clit, which, as she suspected, was hard as a rock. She circled it with feathery touches, abandoning it quickly, then pushing her fingers into her sex, finding her g-spot while her other hand teased her clit. She imagined the tall, Russian man lashing her ass while she knelt on a chair, hands bound to the ceiling.
Just like in the video, he’d lashed her ass again, and again, and again. Her body, circling and clenching, stiffening, and twirling until her body became taut, and she screeched with her release. Her fingers pumped her pussy, the whip cracking in the still air, pushing her closer and closer to the brink again. She shuddered, bumping against her flesh, bringing her over the cliff again. Her pussy milked her fingers, her body shaking and quivering with the aftershocks.
Slowly she opened her eyes, looking down, shaking her head. Her pants had fallen off completely in the frenzy, and she lay half sprawled, and half sitting on the couch, her legs shamelessly splayed.
She grabbed the flesh she referred to as her FUPA — fat upper pussy area — muttering aloud, “This needs to go.”
Tomorrow she’d hire a fitness chef and get herself back into shape.
Chapter Two
Maxim swung the belt just hard enough to make her groan on each swing, but not hard enough to break the skin or bruise harshly. He’d worked with Viktoria before and she performed in most of his videos.
He had pushed the skirt up onto her back, her hips elevated on a pillow. Viktoria loved the belt and whip. As a masochist, she loved the pain, sought it like a bear needing honey. The pain centered her, calmed her. She’d been abused as a child and she liked having the ability to relive the hurt under her terms, under her control. She said it healed the scars, the pain in her soul.
There it was. Soon she’d be coming. She lifted her ass off the pillow, swiveling, circling, her ass yawning open, the silky juices moist on her labia. He thrashed her bottom with the soft, worn leather strap three more times, right at her sit spots, knowing the vibrations and impact of the blows would reverberate up her sex to her clit.
And there...
“Ahhhhh!” She screeched into her pillow, her bottom clenching, turning the yawning ass to a tight seam between her cheeks. She groaned, pounding into the pillow that had been used to elevate her hips. He waited until the quakes settled a little, then resumed the cracks of the belt. The blows weren’t fast, but rather timed with the gyrations of her pelvis.
“Oh, God,” she moaned.
Her arousal was climbing again. He increased the pace to match hers. And when she mewled loudly, he cracked the strap against her ass — hard. She went rigid, her whole body stiffening like a plank, a growl coming from deep in her throat as she arched her back. She gripped the bedspread in white knuckled fists, convulsing with her release, then finally dropping her head to the bed, totally spent.
He didn’t let her decide that it was over though. She never controlled how long or how hard. That decision was reserved for him alone. Resuming his belting of her now very red ass, he gave her slow, methodical strokes, varying the swats from light to harsh and back again.
Now that the arousal and adrenalin had subsided, the ache of the belting would be felt. She’d start becoming aware of her inflamed bottom. She went from mewling and moaning to quietly crying, which then progressed to sobbing. He gave her two more strokes, then stopped. Weaving his belt back through the loops of his jeans, he made sure to stand in her line of vision, as he knew she’d want. As exhausted as she was from the two orgasms and the whipping, her hips still thrust as she watched him wrap the belt back around his waist.
Women.
They loved watching men take off or put on a belt. He stroked her hair off her face, kissing her brow before walking over to shut the camera off.
This would be another great video. He’d upload it to his page on the spanking video site this evening.
He stood at a distance, giving her time to come down from her orgasm and for her sobs to subside. He loved spanking Viktoria. They’d been lovers first, and when that had ended they had continued as friends — friends with benefits. Although they didn’t have sex anymore, they did meet each others’ kinky needs. He needed someone to spank and whip, and she needed and craved the pain.
It worked for them.
He’d been raised in a family that believed in strict, stern discipline. Rules, expectations, and firm boundaries were to be adhered to, not manipulated or disobeyed. He’d been spanked too many times to count as a child. Eastern European families were known to chastise their children with rigorous methods, and although he had never been abused, he rarely broke the same rule twice. Swift and severe punishment was applied liberally.
But he understood Viktoria’s need to resolve some of the pain and scars from her childhood, and if his own needs could be met during these sessions too, so much the better. He loved her as a friend, cared about her emotional well-being. She needed that comfort as well as the pain.
She definitely wasn’t the first woman to admit this need, and it amazed him how women thought they were alone in their needs and kinks. Often they were surprised to find out that many other women had the same desires. As much as Viktoria craved the pain, the aftercare may have been just as important. Aftercare brought her back slowly to here and now of the real world, but always with a more peaceful, quiet spirit.
“Viktoria. Viktoria, sweetling?” He murmured her name, stroking her bottom gently. He rounded the bed, gently pulling her panties up and lowering her skirt down over the inflamed flesh.
“Girl. It is time to get up. Come, we cuddle for a bit.” He sat at the top of the bed, pulling her into his lap. She wasn’t a small girl; he didn’t like small girls. He seemed to be partial to a woman of substance, sturdy with a fleshy, generous ass. He liked a little wobble when he smacked a bottom. Her breasts were also ample; they filled his large hands nicely. Small breasts would be useless to a man of his size. It’s why he liked Russian women. They weren’t pencil thin like Americans — well, some Americans anyway.
He wrapped his arms around her soft body, her head buried in his chest. She was still sweaty from the energy expended during her orgasms and whipping, and he brushed her hair back, gliding his fingers through the silky strands, brushing her forehead with light kisses. He hummed a little, gently rocking her, slipping small pieces of chocolate into her mouth and following it with water. Her eyelids would flutter, her eyes regarding him briefly, then closing again, her soft hum resembling the low purr of a cat.
Contented.
He loved seeing her in this state, totally at peace, without a care or concern.
He felt similarly after one of these sessions. The steady rhythm of the whip or belt with the resounding crack accompanied by the mewls and whines of a sub brought him back in touch with himself, his primal need as a man. It reinforced his need to subjugate and subdue, with the power only he could control — and slowly release. The need to control was strong in him, and yet he loved nothing more than to care for and comfort a woman afterward.
Keeping a tight rein on his restaurant and the students under him satisfied this need too, yet the desire to wield a whip or strap pulled at him daily. He loved knowing that by sheer willpower and control, the whip could be harsh or sensual. He delighted in watchi
ng a woman dance and shout in pain — and in contrasting ecstasy — all by his control of the implement.
Viktoria’s eyes weren’t glazed over anymore, and she smiled at him when he met her gaze. “You came nice, no?”
“Yes, Maxim.” Her cheeks blushed. “It was good and loud, right?”
Maxim laughed, “Yes, it was loud. Neighbors will be looking to see if the cat is okay.”
She slapped his chest with her small hand. “Not funny. You make me come so hard. It is ridiculous how I sound on American video.”
“Americans love the videos, and you screaming when you come makes it hot. People like to watch Viktoria come loudly. You and your beautiful ass.” He squeezed those gorgeous globes, and then swatted one of them, hard.
She scooched her hips forward, trying to avoid another swat. Like that would work.
“Don’t remind me, Maxim. It scares me to think I may have sex, shouting with orgasm in American hotel, and people recognize me, no?” She shook her head, nuzzling it against the center of his chest.
He ruffled her hair, fisting the silky strands in his hands, pulling her head back until she was forced to make eye contact. “What do you care about people you never meet? Eh? No worries. Come. Time for you to go. I have to read email and then go to restaurant.”
She kissed him on the cheek, climbing off the bed and grabbing her purse. She made it partway out of the door when he shouted after her, “Next week. Thursday, ten thirty. We do this again.”
“Yes, Maxim. I will see you then.” She waved and shut the door.
He started the computer and opened his email, scrolling through the familiar names and deleting the spam. One item caught his attention, an email with the subject line:
Wanted: Fitness Chef for CEO. Pays Well.
He opened the email and quickly read. He no longer had any difficulty with English.
Full time. Lives in Manhattan. Requires Green Card or American citizenship. Chef and fitness trainer to Caroline Turner. CEO of Turner Marketing. Pay will be—
He blinked, reading it again. That couldn’t be? Was that right?
So far, everything looked fine. He had his green card, and although he lived in Moscow and was trained to be both a chef and fitness trainer in that city, he had lived in the States for a while. None of this was an issue. And the pay. Well, the pay would be fabulous. He didn’t want to lose his chance at this job. He found his phone and dialed the number immediately.
“Turner Marketing. Sammi speaking. Can I help you?”
“Yes. Hello. My name is Maxim Volkov. You sent an email to me for fitness chef, yes?” He knew he had spoken slowly, but it was the only way to be sure that he used the appropriate English. Most people didn’t have trouble understanding him, but he wanted to be sure. Accents were hard to decipher over the telephone.
“Oh, hi Maxim. Yes, we’re interested in a fitness chef for Ms. Turner. Caroline would like someone on a live-in basis at her home. You’d have your own living area — kind of a wing, actually — living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. I included the pay, right?”
She spoke very fast and seemed almost overly friendly.
He took a deep breath, hoping he remembered everything she had said. “Yes, you told me about the pay. That would be acceptable.”
Acceptable? It’s more than you could hope to make in five years!
“You didn’t say anything about living there,” he said. “But if I have my own area, that should be fine.”
“Do you have working papers, Mr. Volkov?”
“Maxim. Call me, Maxim, Samantha. I have a green card to work in the US.” He cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. “I have been chef in New York, actually.”
“Really? Where?” The surprise in her voice was obvious.
“The Russian Room. You know of it? You eat there?”
“Nah. But I’ll check it out. So, do you think you may be interested in the job?” A hint of hopefulness snuck into her voice now. Samantha was either a great administrative assistant, or Miss Caroline Turner could be a difficult person when things didn’t go her way.
“Yes. I would be interested. We’d have to discuss details, of course.” He never jumped into things. Getting the details and working out any kinks ahead of time would be best for both of them.
“Oh, that’d be awesome! Thank God. When would you be able to meet with Caroline to discuss the final details?” There it was again. He’d have to watch Caroline when he met her in person, to see how she related to staff. It would be very telling for him personally.
“I need to book flight to U.S. so I can email you when my flight is confirmed. Is there any week that is no good for Caroleena?”
“Oh, it’s pronounced Caro-line. She’s very picky about how people say her name, Sir.” Samantha had an edge of rebuke in her voice, which never boded well with Maxim.
“I say it that way because of accent. She will understand, I am sure. When is Caroleena available, Samantha?”
“Uhm... Sammi. Call me Sammi. Well, she said that she’d move her schedule around to accommodate you, Max. So, whenever you want.”
“Maxim. You’ll call me Maxim, or Sir.” He paused, waiting for her response.
Start as you plan to continue.
“S-sorry. Maxim, Sir.”
“It is just how I wish to be addressed. No worries.” He paused to look at his schedule on his phone. “It should be no problem for me to be there next week. So, I will call you with details of flight. Should I make hotel reservations?”
“No. S-sir. Her penthouse has a wing for you. Did I put that in the email? Or did I forget?”
“No, Samantha, you put it in the email. I’m not hired yet, so I had no reason to believe I would be able to stay there. But, thank you, I will stay at Ms. Caroleena’s. Caroline’s.”
“Okay, Maxim. I’ll talk to you soon! I’m so glad you’re coming.”
“Good day, Samantha.”
Maxim hung up, staring at his phone.
Interesting.
Caroline didn’t know him at all — hadn’t even met him yet — but was willing to let him stay at her penthouse. Definitely not safe.
Impulsive.
And Samantha was overly eager to please her boss, evidently fearing her boss’ negative reaction to things.
The good news was that Caroleena wanted him to start immediately.
Chapter Three
“Caroline, Maxim just called from the airport. Jason found him, and he’s on his way.” Sammi, dressed very professionally today, stood in the doorway to Caroline’s office. Some days, she dressed too feminine as far as Caroline was concerned, but today a black, tailored suit with strappy heels made her look the part of an administrative assistant to a CEO.
A look that she should wear every day.
“Show him in as soon as he gets here.” Caroline pointed to the comfortable sitting area in front of a gas fireplace in her office. Two Queen Anne chairs beckoned any visitors, along with a sofa, and a glass and cherry wood table accented with a large glass vase full of dried blue and purple hydrangeas. “And make sure there’s coffee and tea ready this time. I want him comfortable.”
She grit her teeth a little. Sammi had forgotten tea for an English client a few months back and since that incident, Caroline made sure to remind her admin every time clients were on their way.
“Yes, Caroline. I’m sorry. Everything’s set, I’ve even added chai and purchased an espresso machine.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Well, about damn time. We’ve needed one of those for a while now. I want him as my fitness chef. We need everything to be perfect. Now, go. I have things to do before he comes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sammi turned on her heel, shutting the door quietly behind her as she left.
Caroline felt nervous about meeting Maxim. She didn’t usually have nerves when meeting new clients or executives. She hadn’t climbed her way to the top by being reticent or insecure around people. But since this had to do with
her weight and eating habits, she felt concerned about judgment. She assumed a fitness chef would be critical of her lifestyle, and her body as a whole.
She hadn’t always been a size sixteen. In college she’d been down to a size six. But the amount of work to maintain that sort of figure became unrealistic. She’d been one who liked the more drastic measures girls used to stay thin, she found herself eating very little every day, then binging on pizza and beer on Fridays with her roommate Avery, doing “body cleanses” or laxatives, to purge weight on a daily basis.
And, thankfully, Avery had caught on and convinced her to stop with the purging. She’d always love her for that. Avery had helped her over that hurdle and kept her away from it — for the most part — for the next four years.
Speaking of which, I need to call her and fly her out for a weekend. A girl weekend.
She missed her girl time with Avery Beauchamp — Harrison, now. Avery had married an attorney, the same attorney who had made her clean his house as punishment for selling stolen goods. She been amazed that Avery — sweet, kind (and crazy) daughter of a judge, Avery — had committed a crime. God, the crazy times they’d had in college as roommates. She needed to get her out here for a weekend so they could rip up the town again. She wrote a note on her phone reminding herself to give Avery a call tonight.
Picking up the Parker files on her desk, she shook her head trying to focus. No need to concern herself over things she had no control over and his reactions fell into that category.
* * *
The long flight had been grueling. He’d forgotten how exhausting it was to fly to the US. Feeling like the walking dead, he and his fellow passengers had made their way down into the bowels of the airport, congregating like zombies in baggage claim.
Now, Maxim waited for his bags to appear, the only sounds the murmur of tired travelers and the repeated squeaking of one of the rollers each time the metal plates swung around the turn at each end of the stainless steel carousel.
My Russian Master (Service & Submission Book 3) Page 2
