Master Me

by Lisabet Sarai, Trina Lane, Elizabeth Coldwell, Charlotte Stein, Jane Davitt, Justine Elyot

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t mind if he made me squirm,” Adele murmured.

  I wondered what she’d say if she knew about the spanking. I pushed the thought away.

  “I think he’s still pretty much hooked on Anne Merrill, just as you said.” I shrugged, pretending I didn’t care a fig about Geoffrey Hart. “He has a big colour photo of her in his room. He’s just playing with us. For kicks.”

  As soon as I uttered the words, I realised their probable truth. My spirits sank. Why did I think there was something special about last night? I was just a fuck toy—Geoffrey had even said as much. For me, our encounter had revealed new truths. It had been a life-changing experience. But for him? Probably just a bit of nasty recreation, something to take his mind off his broken heart and bruised ego.

  Geoffrey turned his head back in my direction, as if he’d heard my thoughts. He didn’t smile this time. His dark eyes blazed. The force of his will slammed into me like a physical blow. I felt him reel me in like a hooked fish. Desperate lust surged through my traitorous body. I wanted him, wanted more of what he’d given me last night. It didn’t matter what he thought of me. Whatever he asked for, I’d give.

  * * * *

  Fifteen minutes to go. There was that expectant hush that I had come to love, the brief taut moments before the curtain rises. The musicians were warming up. The cast gathered backstage, stretching or meditating or quietly conversing. Geoffrey was not among them. I made my way through the back corridors of the theatre to his dressing room. I had to see him again. I couldn’t help myself.

  As I raised my knuckles to the door, it opened. Geoffrey stood before me in full costume, plump with padding, his hair sprinkled with artificial grey, his features made thick and common with make-up. Nevertheless his eyes were still the eyes of my master.

  “Sarah!” He sounded concerned and my heart took a little leap.

  “Mr. Hart—sir—I had to see you.” I stared down at my shoes, knowing that I was breaking all sorts of rules.

  “To wish me luck?” he asked with gentle mockery.

  “Yes, of course, but—I…” My mouth felt desert-dry, my tongue like sandpaper. “May I come to your room tonight? After the performance?”

  He cupped my chin and raised my eyes to his. “You want more, little one?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, ignoring the blood that climbed into my cheeks and the juices trickling down my thighs. “Please…”

  “Not tonight. You need to heal.”

  “I’m fine. Really. It hardly hurts at all…”

  “I think you’d find yourself retracting that statement ten minutes into our scene. No, tonight is too soon.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, girl! You’ll come when I summon you, and not before. Do you understand?”

  The sudden authority in his voice sent a delicious thrill up my spine that slightly blunted my disappointment.

  “Um—yes, sir.” How could I argue with him, without violating the entire spirit of our relationship? But a shred of rebellion still fluttered in my chest.

  He grazed his lips across mine, the barest touch. My nipples turned to hot coals under my costume.

  “Don’t worry, girl. I’m far from done with you. Now, get out there and break a leg.”

  Turning me around like some wayward child, he pushed me back into the corridor and closed the door. I felt the marks of his fingers on my behind, even when I stepped onto the stage.

  * * * *

  The opening was a triumph. We had a full house, thanks to Geoffrey’s reputation, and they laughed and applauded in all the right places. Helen made a wonderful Golde, buxom, motherly and just slightly shrewish. But it was Geoffrey, predictably, who stole the show, his Yiddish accent seeming as genuine as his normal British-edged speech.

  The audience demanded three curtain calls. Afterwards, the cast was a bit high. Some people headed over to the pub to celebrate, but again I made excuses. I was exhausted, from the tension as much as the physical exertion of the performance, and to be honest, my butt was sore.

  I noted that Geoffrey didn’t join them either.

  Back in my room, I showered. Hot water reawakened the stinging in my ass. I donned a loose cotton shift, turned off the light, and lay down on my stomach so as not to irritate my welts. Perhaps Geoffrey was right. I needed some time to recover—as much from the emotional intensity as from the physical damage.

  The breath of the summer night filtered in through the open window—apple blossoms, sun-baked soil, new-mown hay, a ripe whiff from the dairy farm up the road. Faint laughter reached me—my intoxicated colleagues stumbling across the green, back to the inn. The Congregational church clock chimed eleven. A warm breeze ruffled the drapes.

  I tried to harness my thoughts and drag them away from Gregory, but the effort was futile. I kept seeing his naked body, looming over me as he had last night, his cock a terrible sword ready to pierce me. I kept hearing his voice. Mine. I have the power. Oh God, how true that was! He had bound me to him in a single night. He’d made me crazy with desire. My body was stretched tight with lust, vibrating like strings of some musical instrument, waiting for the touch of the maestro to bring forth its song.

  I remembered the contents of his suitcase—coils of rope, cuffs of leather, steel clamps, rubber paddles. I could see them all in my mind, as though in a photograph, each item more diabolical than the last. Would he use them on me? Of course he would. How could I doubt it?

  And I wanted him to. Alone and in the dark, I still blushed at that realisation. Last night had not satisfied my curiosity—not in the least. So far I had only glimpsed the possibilities. I wanted to know the sensations inflicted by each of those forbidden items. I wanted him to show me just how perverted I really was.

  My pussy felt raw and heavy. I slipped my hands under my belly and cupped my mons. The curly hair was as damp as I had expected. I wriggled a tentative finger through the curls and brushed it across my aching clit. Lightning shot through me. I remembered how Geoffrey had filled and stretched me. I wanted, needed that again. If he was determined to deny me, I could take care myself as I’d done for the past four lonely years.

  No! I was reaching for my vibrator when the word echoed in my mind. I could imagine Geoffrey scowling and shaking his head. Your pussy is mine now. My imagination? Probably, but I was certain nevertheless that he would not approve of any solo sex on my part. He had forbidden me to come until he commanded me to do so. If I was honest with myself, I knew that instruction included the time when we were apart.

  Sweating, restless, I flipped over onto my back and gasped as the bedspread rubbed against my tender ass. Oh, Geoffrey! I couldn’t stand it. My sex felt like a hive of red ants. I was so aroused that it was painful.

  I tried relaxation exercises. Deep breathing. Reviewing Adele’s lines in Fiddler and Streetcar, in the unlikely event that I’d have to take over her part. Nothing helped. Finally I rose, donned my shoes, and slipped out the door.

  What was I doing? He’d be furious if I disobeyed him. He’d beat me so hard that yesterday’s spanking would feel like a tickling by comparison. These thoughts didn’t deter me. They just made me hotter.

  Light seeped out from under his door. Clearly he was not asleep. I tiptoed to the end of the hall then stopped, holding my breath. I heard occasional grunts, muffled by the wooden door, and a rhythmic slapping that reminded me of his palm on my ass. With a trembling hand I grasped the doorknob and twisted slowly, praying that it was well oiled.

  The knob turned, practically silent. I pushed the door open a crack, just wide enough for me to peek inside.

  Geoffrey Hart sprawled naked in the wingback chair near the window, head back, stubborn chin held high. I thought his eyes must be closed. Tousled black hair covered his forehead. His sculpted torso gleamed with sweat in the light of the reading lamp. His left leg was cocked, his heel on the seat. The other stretched out, lean and muscular, towards the table opposite the chair. A glass half-full of am
ber liquid shimmered there, abandoned.

  One fist clenched around his cock, which rose like a fat snake from his grasp, oiled and purple with blood. The sound I’d heard was his hand jerking his rod up and down, up and down. With each downward stroke his lubricated fist slapped against his pubis.

  His other hand clutched at some silvery contraptions clamped onto his nipples. The two hands were synchronised. He moaned as he simultaneously pulled on the clamps and milked his cock.

  My pussy clenched and I nearly came, just standing there spying. He looked magnificent, but more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him. He was lost in his self-pleasuring, his potent will relaxed as he pushed himself closer to climax. I was sure he didn’t realise he was being observed.

  His full lips pressed into a thin line as he worked himself over. He yanked on his engorged prick, twisting and squeezing, as rough on himself as he’d been on me the night before. The feelings came back—his unrelenting hardness drilling into my body until I was ready to burst, then leaving me gaping, empty, desperate for more. I wanted to rush in, tear off my clothes and beg him to take me. Something held me back, though my nipples were painfully hard and my thighs were slippery with my juices.

  “Ah, ah! You little bitch!” he gasped. “I’ll fuck your brains out. Ah! Uh! I’ll fuck you and fuck you and you’ll just beg for more, you slut.”

  A pang of lust cut through me like a hot knife through butter. Could he be fantasising about me? Did he know I was there after all, on the verge of begging just as he’d said?

  Joy boiled up inside me, mingling with my arousal. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. He had wanted me tonight but had sent me away for my own good, out of concern. He had deprived himself for my sake.

  He was getting close. His handsome face contorted with effort, he wrenched his hand up and down his lubricated stalk. I was gasping with him, teetering on the edge of my climax even though I hadn’t touched myself at all.

  “Aye! Fuck! Fuck!” His powerful form convulsed. A blast of cum fountained up from his cock, spraying his legs, the floor, and the table. He came and came, spurting gobs of white into the air. Some just missed his glass of scotch. Some landed on the glass of the photo I finally noticed sitting next to the drink.

  I didn’t need to see the picture to know who it was. Yesterday it had been next to the couch. He had deliberately moved it closer, so he could gaze at it while he wanked.

  He wasn’t thinking about me when he came. He was thinking about her.

  * * * *

  I cried myself to sleep. In the morning, my eyes felt as though they were filled with ground glass and my throat as if I’d drunk acid. But the show must go on. I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, my mood alternating between anger and self-pity.

  The water needling my ass hardly stung at all. The realisation filled me with strange regret.

  Now that Fiddler had opened, we were going to start rehearsing A Streetcar Named Desire. I played Eunice, Stella Kowalski’s upstairs neighbour. Not a huge part but a lot more substantial than my role in Fiddler. Adele was Stella. Helen would be Blanche DuBois. The role was a perfect match for her delicate, bird-like frame and refined manner. Jack was Mitch, the good-hearted working class guy taken in by Blanche’s lies.

  Geoffrey, of course, played Stanley—Stella’s arrogant, sensual, hot-headed husband—the role immortalised by Marlon Brando. I had no doubt that he’d be brilliant.

  I reached for my jeans. Something stopped me. I was ready to swear that I’d have nothing more to do with Geoffrey Hart. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to wear the clothing he’d forbidden.

  When I arrived at the playhouse, Arthur was already walking the cast through the first scene.

  “Hey, there! Stella, Baby!” Geoffrey yelled.

  “Don’t holler at me like that,” said Adele, stepping forward with an indulgent smile.

  Geoffrey tossed a McDonald’s bag in Adele’s direction. She giggled as she caught it.

  “Act a bit disgusted,” Arthur interjected. “He’s just thrown a bloody hunk of beef in your direction. And Geoffrey, you should be moving as soon as the meat leaves your grasp, headed off for the bowling alley with your friends. Don’t wait to see if Stella catches it. You assume that she will.” He noticed me, standing in the aisle. “Oh, hi, Sarah.”

  “Sorry to be late,” I mumbled.

  “Never mind. We’re just getting started. You’re on stage when the curtain rises, sitting on the step and talking to Hatty.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I’d learnt my lines a month ago—Stella’s, too. Actually, Streetcar was one of my all-time favourite plays, both romantic and tragic. I must have read it twenty times. It never failed to leave my eyes damp.

  I scrambled up on stage, trying to hold my skirt down over my bare rear. I had to walk past Geoffrey to get to my chair.

  “Good morning, Sarah,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  I was terrified that he was going to do something lewd, but he just gave me a knowing smile. I nodded, not trusting myself to answer. My resolutions didn’t matter. His voice melted me. I just hoped I wouldn’t leave a wet spot on the seat.

  Being on stage with him was torture. Fortunately, after repeating the opening interaction a few times, he exited stage left and we moved on to Blanche’s entrance. Helen fluttered onto the stage, looking shocked and uncertain.

  I asked her what was the matter, trying hard to put the lilt of the South into my voice.

  Helen’s accent, speaking Blanche’s famous first lines about, “a streetcar named Desire,” would make you believe that she’d grown up in Louisiana instead of in Knightsbridge. I felt humbled but incredibly impressed. She was an inspiration.

  The play caught me up in its magic. I forgot about Geoffrey, at least most of the time. It wasn’t too difficult, because he wasn’t paying any kind of special attention to me, the neighbour woman Eunice. He was in love with his wife and pissed off at her ever-so-refined sister Blanche. He was Stanley Kowalski, through and through, rough and urgent, proud and needy. He was close to perfect.

  And this was only our first rehearsal.

  Arthur called out for sandwiches at noon, not wanting to break too long and lose the momentum. I took my ham and cheese out to sit on the back steps behind the playhouse. I didn’t feel like socialising.

  To my left was the dormitory building. The prop and costume sheds were to the right. Straight ahead, beyond the fence, brilliant green fields stretched towards the purple hills. If I listened carefully, I could hear the lowing of the cows.

  “Mind if I join you?” Geoffrey settled himself on the step beside me, not waiting for permission. He didn’t touch me, but I found myself drowning in his scent.

  My sorrow and anger evaporated, burned away by searing desire. I stared at my lacquered toenails, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Are you all right, Sarah?” Ah, that tone of concern. If only he were sincere.

  “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep all that well last night.”

  “Neither did I,” he confided.

  I glanced up, surprised. There was no mockery in his expression. “Oh really?”

  “I kept thinking about you, little one.”

  I thought my heart would jump out of my throat.

  “Um—I was thinking about you too—sir.”

  “I know you were. I was so aware of you, only a few doors down the hall from me. I could almost hear your heart beat. I wanted to snatch you from your room, carry you off and tie you to my bed so that you could never get away.”

  His rich, nuanced voice excited me almost as much as his words. Why didn’t you? I wanted to scream. I kept silent, painfully conscious of his eyes boring into me.

  His finger traced the outline of my lips. I held my breath, afraid to break the spell.

  “How is your ass? Still sore?”

  “Not really. Yesterday it hurt a bit, but today I’m pretty much back to normal.” Right. If you call wanting to be bound, beaten and fucked t
o a quivering pulp normal.

  “Would you like to visit me tonight?”

  “It’s up to you, sir. If you want me, I’ll be there.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I remembered the creamy strands of his cum decorating Anne Merrill’s portrait and I wanted to refuse, but somehow I couldn’t.

  Dimly I heard Arthur’s voice calling us back to rehearsal.

  “I want you.” He tweaked my nipple, making me gasp. “Midnight.”

  He disappeared into the building, leaving me sitting there in a puddle of my own making. He didn’t even bother to wait for my assent.

  Chapter Four

  I told myself over and over I was making a mistake. I was usually so rational and disciplined. Why couldn’t I stop myself from doing whatever Geoffrey Hart ordered?

  It wasn’t just curiosity or the novelty of his kinky games. He touched me, somehow, in a new way. That first night, I’d felt some kind of magic and I wanted it again. I knew, instinctively, that I could trust him. He’d teach me, he’d take care of me, and he’d never judge me. The submissive slut that I became in his presence didn’t disgust him. Far from it. He wanted to see me let go. He wanted to show me who I really was—his eager, willing slave.

  The evening performance of Fiddler ended around ten thirty. It took me twenty minutes to remove my costume and make-up. Back at the inn, I set my alarm for eleven forty five, just in case I fell asleep again, but I didn’t need it. I’d never felt so alert.

  I knocked on his door precisely at midnight. This time Geoffrey answered in person.

  He wore a robe of some shimmery material that looked like silk, twilight blue woven with patterns of gold. His feet were bare. His eyes were hungry.

  “Come in, little one,” he purred, stepping aside so that I could pass. “You’re very punctual. I gather you’ve learnt your lesson.”

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t know what else to say. I stood in the middle of the room, eyes cast down and hands clasped in front of me like a schoolgirl about to recite. I couldn’t bear to look at him; I was sure I’d lose control and do something without his permission.