Master Me
Page 23
Email: charlotte_stein@hotmail.co.uk.
Charlotte loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also by Charlotte Stein
Waiting in Vain
Past Pleasures
Sultry Solstice: Tigerlily
FRESH START
Jane Davitt
Dedication
To Sarra, who has always been an inspiration.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Story of O: Pauline Réage
Velcro: Velcro Industries B.V.
Chapter One
The carpet against her knees had always felt soft when she was walking on it barefoot, but after forty minutes of kneeling, Helen was convinced that it was made of sandpaper, not wool. She shifted position, just a little, just an inch, and Connor’s hand moved.
God, that hurt.
How many times had he tugged sharply on the chain? She’d lost count. She’d tried to stay completely, perfectly still, but it wasn’t easy and the blindfold wasn’t helping. She wasn’t disorientated, just distracted. Connor was sitting at his desk, writing, and the scratch of his pen, and the rustle of paper, told her exactly where he was.
If he’d taken that sense away from her, too, plugging her ears, it wouldn’t have mattered. She could still smell him, each breath she took leaving her more helplessly aroused than before. It was a subtle seduction of crisp cotton and clean skin, and she wanted to find the places on his body where that scent became earthier, richer, and nuzzle into them.
She inhaled deeply and regretted it when the clamps pinching her nipples gave her away, the small bells hanging from them chiming, a cool sound, like water over rocks. The echoes were drowned in her moan when Connor sighed and pulled again at the slender chains linked to the clamps. The end of each chain was held in his hand, warmed by his palm as she’d discovered when he’d needed both hands to refill his pen. He’d coiled the chains and pushed them inside her mouth to hold, the irregular bumps pressing into her tongue and palate. The taste of the metal had lingered after he’d taken the chains out and she’d licked at her lips, trying to take the metallic tang away.
He wrote in navy ink, always, with a fountain pen worn shiny where his fingers gripped it. The sound of the nib travelling over the paper was like a language she didn’t speak but could guess at in places. It didn’t matter. She’d be given the pages to read and she’d see for herself where he’d changed his mind and scratched out a sentence with an impatient click of his tongue and be able to guess at why he’d done it.
Connor leant over, his leather chair creaking, and let go of the chains. Helen felt them strike her thighs softly, the chains swaying with her quick, caught breath. Small though it was, the additional weight increased the pain in her tender, tortured nipples. The clamps weren’t overly tight because Connor had known that she’d be wearing them for a while, but they’d been on for almost too long to bear.
Connor capped the pen and put it down, two distinctly different clicks. Helen hadn’t reached the state where she was floating, anchored by her awareness of Connor and a quiet exultation in the perfection of her submission. Not today. Not for a long time, really, though that was a passing thought, no more than that.
“You fidgeted a good deal,” Connor said and unfastened the blindfold as he spoke. Helen closed her eyes when it fell away and opened them slowly, blinking in the muted light of the study. “How many times did you move?”
Being wrong was allowed but trying to pass off a guess as a certainty wasn’t. Helen tried to add them up, all those flashes of pain, jolting her body like a slap, but her thoughts had been too scattered.
“I lost count at seven,” she admitted.
“Oh, dear,” Connor said, his lips quirking in a sympathetic smile that was entirely false. “Let’s see if your ability to do basic math has returned. You moved nine times, so how many strokes will you get?”
Losing count doubled the strokes and tonight Connor wouldn’t hold back. Helen felt a familiar tightening between her legs, a throb of anticipation, sweetly powerful. “Eighteen.”
“Then we’d better see to them, hadn’t we?” He ran his fingertips over her cheek and down to her left breast, cupping it and jiggling it, drawing a gasp from her. “We don’t have much time.”
She sobbed as the clamps were unfastened, harsh, panted breaths that sounded loud in the peace of the room. A few tears trickled down her face. “God, that hurts…”
“Yes,” he said.
One word and it meant so much. Acknowledgement that yes, her nipples were throbbing with a fierce, bright pain that he’d caused and appreciation of the way she was keeping her back straight—mixed with a regret she shared that they were so close to the moment when he’d have to leave.
“I wanted it to. You needed it to.”
He gave her time to compose herself, waiting for a nod before gesturing her up, his hands steadying her when she stumbled on cramped legs.
“Over the desk,” he said and moved his chair back to give her room to slip between his knees and the desk.
Getting into position, stomach against the cool wood, her legs spread wide, leaving her open, exposed, took an effort of will that Helen knew Connor wasn’t happy about. Even tonight, she knew that he wouldn’t let it go.
“You can do better than that by now, Helen.” The disapproval in his voice was relatively mild but she bit her lip, wishing that she could get over a shyness that really was pretty pointless given Connor’s comprehensive exploration of her body over the past eight months with his hands, eyes, and mouth. “I think we’ll make it twenty.”
Helen shivered, part apprehension, part longing. Those last two were going to hurt. She felt Connor’s finger slide into her through the slick, heavy wetness that kneeling naked, waiting, had caused. His hands were strong, capable hands, the fingers long enough to reach deeper inside her than her own could. A second finger joined the first, fucking her with a slow deliberation.
“I wish you weren’t going away,” she said, the words spilling out before she could check them.
Behind her, Connor sighed, and withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty. “I do, too, but this is one trip I can’t avoid. Tom’s jittery as hell about the restaurant and he needs me to hold his hand. I’ll be back in eight days.” He tapped her bottom. “And for talking without permission, I’m going to make sure the marks I leave on you last until I get back.”
“I want them to,” she said, the disobedience of talking not as important as the need to get over to Connor just how much she was going to miss him. “I want to look at them in the mirror and—”
His hand came across her mouth, silencing her though his palm was barely touching her lips. She could smell herself on his fingers and she wanted him to slip them inside her mouth for her to suck clean.
“Please stop talking.”
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk and she squirmed, a bad-tempered wriggle of pure frustration. This wasn’t the first time that Connor’s business had taken him away, but his trips had been overnight, no more. Eight nights sleeping in that huge bed alone, eight days without Connor there, a constant presence in her life, shaping it to suit himself and in the process making her feel safe, loved.
From where she lay, spread out on his desk, she could see the clock on the wall. An hour before the car came to take him to the airport. It wasn’t long enough. He’d play with her, spank her, all at the unhurried pace that drew her inexorably along with him, but they’d both be aware of the minutes ticking away and she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the afterglow, curled up in his lap or at his feet, her backside smarting and her body keenly aware of every sensation it was experiencing.
“I think you should be glad that I don’t have time to deal with you properly,” Connor said, a trace of amusem
ent in his deep voice. He was only nine years older than her twenty-four but at times like this, it felt like more. “You wouldn’t enjoy tonight at all, sweetheart. You’re being very disobedient.”
I would, she thought rebelliously. I’d love anything you did to me.
She knew that Connor, if he decided to exercise an imagination she’d come to associate with words like ‘fiendish’ and ‘diabolical’, could easily come up with a punishment that would be no fun at all—but even then, she’d probably still get a kick out of it on one level, at least. This was all so new to her that even standing in a corner, a book on her head, sent a frisson of excitement through her, blunting the edge of the boredom.
And of course, if the book slid sideways and fell to the floor, she’d get punished properly, and that was, oh, that was—
She felt his breath warm against her bottom then he bit her, sucking at the captured flesh hard enough that she could almost feel the mark form in an explosion of colour, matching the fireworks behind her tightly closed eyes. He eased back when she was whimpering, striving to stay still, licking at her skin then kissing it.
“Beautiful,” he said in a murmur, tracing the shape his teeth had left with his finger. “Your skin takes a mark so well.”
She heard a drawer slide open and closed her eyes, wondering what he was taking out. Twenty. The number governed what he would use. She couldn’t take twenty with the crop, but he might use it for the final two strokes, leaving deep, stark lines of scarlet against her flushed, bruised skin.
She wanted this. Had craved it for years with what had been a bewildered desperation until she’d met Connor at her birthday party in late June and everything that had been indistinct and fuzzy had sharpened to a clear focused certainty.
He’d escorted his cousin, a neighbour of Helen’s, to the party out of what Helen could only assume was a rare moment of kindness, since Karen and he had nothing in common but a surname. Bored, he’d taken refuge in Helen’s bedroom and had picked up the book she’d been reading. A book she’d thought was safely tucked away in a drawer, but which had actually been under her pillow where it had announced its presence by digging into Connor’s back. Helen had gone to her room to touch up her lipstick and had found him with her book in his hands. She could’ve explained a read-to-pieces copy of the Story of O, laughing it off, but it meant too much to her to do that. She’d stood in front of him, nakedly vulnerable, her voice shaking with tears and temper as she’d berated him for prying into her personal belongings, and he’d run his hand through hair the colour of cream sherry, rumpling it into a messy tangle, and had stared coolly at her with eyes two shades darker than his hair until she’d stopped talking.
Then he’d tossed the book down on the bed and begun to recite the opening lines, never looking away from her, and the clamour of the party had faded to a meaningless hum.
She’d moved in with him two months later, and had found that it was possible to merge real life with fantasy very easily when Connor was the one orchestrating events. He’d led her patiently along a path he’d walked many times before and if she’d sometimes rebelled when he’d refused to let her explore some of the darker places they’d passed, she had to admit that some of them looked a little scary.
“I have limits, too, you know,” he’d snapped once. “Lines I won’t cross, no matter how prettily you beg me to hurt you and yes, you look good on your knees, but there’s not an ounce of fucking submission in you right now and we both know it. Try to top me from the bottom again and I’ll tie you to a chair and make you watch me play with another sub, one who knows what she’s doing.”
“If you do that, I’ll walk out,” she’d said, flinging the words at him like stones, a suffocating jealousy and sense of loss choking her.
“Why?” Connor had walked over to her, and pinched her chin between his fingers, tilting her head back. “Because you don’t want to see how far you fall short?”
She’d shaken her hair, the long, dark hair he loved to brush until it clung to his fingers whipping back and forth, strands of it clinging to her tear-wet face. “Because I’m yours and you can punish me if I screw up or I disappoint you, but not like that. You talk about lines, well, that’s one of mine. I won’t share you or be shared. I’m not being…I’m not doing that, I’m just—Connor, please—”
“And now you sound as if you mean it,” he’d said softly, lifting the wet hair away from her face. “Tell me again. What can I do to you?”
“Anything,” she’d said, knowing that by discovering a new limit, she’d redefined the word as they understood it. Early on in their relationship, they’d spent a rainy Sunday afternoon working out what that word would mean for them, making it shorthand for a page of scribbled, amended notes.
“Yes,” he’d said and had kissed her lightly when she’d wanted more. “Because you’re mine.”
She was, and she was conscious of that every waking moment—mostly—but at times like this, waiting for him to discipline her, she knew it deep down.
The first stroke was from his hand, a crisp, full-bodied slap that drove the edge of the desk into her stomach. She’d stand and find a mark across her belly, bruises flowering later, but she’d learned how to brace herself without tensing too much, which helped.
She counted in her head, ready in case he paused to ask her how many slaps he’d given her, but he didn’t. Nine with his hand, nine with a paddle, the wood feeling rough against her hot skin, then the final two with the crop. She was expecting that white-hot slash of pain, but when it came she still cried out, her mouth hanging open as she panted for breath.
Warmth suffused her as the sensation receded, leaving her tingling from head to toe. It hurt, yes, but God, it hurt in just the right way. It was impossible to explain, even to Connor, who was giving her that incredible high. He’d been on the receiving end, but it hadn’t done much for him.
“Oh, I tried it out, of course, I did,” he’d admitted back when she was full of questions and a dazzled impatience, wanting to try everything, right away, now. “I was at a club—no, I’m not a member now, it just got too predictable, somehow. There was a Dom there, a lot older than me, and we got talking one night. I’d only been in the scene six months or so, and it was as new to me as it is to you. I had questions, doubts. I wanted to find the perfect sub, but I was terrified that I’d fuck things up, or hurt her.”
“You don’t seem that way now.”
Connor’s utter confidence was more reassuring than any words could be. Helen had never doubted him when he’d said that he’d never ask her for more than she could give.
“It was a long time ago.” Connor had sipped his wine reflectively. “I decided to try it from the sub’s side. I could use a strap or a paddle on a cushion—and I did—but when it came to using them on a real, live arse, well, I was worried that I’d go too far. So I asked Andrew to show me what it was like.”
“Why him?” Helen had asked, curious. “Why not a woman?”
“Because I didn’t want it to be sexual—for me, anyway, Andrew always had male subs—and I needed to know what a stroke from a man felt like.” Connor had grimaced wryly. “Hurt like hell and I didn’t enjoy it much at all, though there was still something about doing it…I felt as if I’d passed a test somehow. Andrew was great. He took me under his wing and taught me a lot, then he introduced me to Sophie, another Domme, and I got her take on everything.” He’d grinned. “And one afternoon, she showed me that she could hit just as hard as Andrew and that was the last time I’ve ever been in that position.”
“So you don’t get it at all?” Helen had felt a stab of disappointment. “Why I love it, I mean?”
“No, I do,” Connor had assured her. “It’s the submission as much as the physical feelings, am I right? You wouldn’t enjoy it if, oh, if you were out walking in the woods and a branch whacked you in the face, but if I slapped you across the face, you might, depending on how I’d set the scene. And I do see how you can take the pain and m
ake it work for you, but I’m not wired to do that. Giving it turns me on, God, yes, but getting it? No.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Helen had said fervently.
Connor had laughed, his eyes bright with amusement. “Neither do you, sweetheart, but we both need each other to be on different sides of this particular equation, so let’s agree to differ, hmm?”
The second stroke bit deep into her flesh, savage, perfect, breaking her apart and setting her free. She screamed, loving that she could in this large house, surrounded by land not neighbours, and felt his hand on her back, grounding her and bringing the shattered pieces together again.
He didn’t speak for a while, the soft, soothing pass of his hand over her hair and back telling her all that she needed to hear, but the euphoria couldn’t last forever and the desk was really not the most comfortable surface to be bent over. Helen uncurled her fingers from the edge of the desk, flexing them gingerly.
“You took those well,” Connor said, his voice husky, roughened by emotion. “God, I’m going to miss you so much this week.”
He helped her get to her feet and led her over to the couch set against the side wall, upholstered in a dark green velvet and old enough to be comfortable. Helen sat—carefully—inside the circle of Connor’s arm and sipped at the orange juice he brought her, tart and sweet at the same time and blissfully cool. Before he left, Connor would slather her bottom with ointment along each welt, rubbing it in with gentle fingers, would go through his itinerary one final time, making sure that she knew how to get in touch with him, would take care of her until the final moment of departure. Helen should have felt cherished, and she did, but it was shadowed by the inexorable tick of the clock.