Master Me

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

  When she’d been panting, sweat dappling her body, her hands trembling as she tried to force them to obey the drawled out commands, taking her closer to the moment when she’d disappoint him by climaxing too soon, he’d reached over and knocked the vibe out of her hands, his eyes glittering. After he’d twisted it off, quietness surged back into the room and Helen caught her breath on a sigh as Connor’s mouth found every teased, tweaked-to-arousal place on her body and soothed it to silence with a kiss.

  He could do this for hours, work her up and bring her down, over and over, until a point was reached where he decided that it was time to move on. Helen was never sure where that point lay, but that didn’t matter when Connor did.

  Connor shifted off the bed and glanced at her. “How do the cuffs feel?” he asked.

  Helen tried to curl in on herself, a slow, gradual movement, and found, not to her surprise, that she couldn’t move much at all. The confirmation of how securely she was held in place was like a hug, welcoming, comforting. She smiled up at him. “Fine.”

  His fingers brushed against her ear, her mouth, her half-closed eyes. “I’m going to take your senses away,” he told her. “Leave you with nothing to do but feel.”

  She nodded, a unspoken agreement to what he had planned, and opened her hand. With her mouth gagged and her eyes blindfolded, letting him know if she was in distress would require a substitute for a safe word, and Connor, who preferred a simple solution where possible, just gave her the back-door key to hold, a heavy, solid piece of metal. If she dropped it, given the position of her hand, it would fall to the wooden floor with a clang that would be impossible to miss. She released it, heard it hit the floor and bounce twice, the sound intrusive and sharp, and nodded again. When the key was returned to her hand, she held it tightly, the cool metal warming against her palm. It wasn’t her only way to signal that she needed to stop the scene, but it was the simplest.

  Her hearing went first, the plugs eased in carefully, leaving her with an odd sensation of falling and the need to swallow hard. Next was sight, the familiar room becoming a vast, dark void, every sliver of light thwarted by the blindfold. Connor paused, allowing her time to adjust, then tapped her lips to tell her to open up.

  The ball of the gag was smaller than some Connor used, but large enough that Helen knew she’d be reduced to muffled grunts if she tried to speak, drool trickling out of the side of her mouth. Messy, but liberating, too, as much as the tears that would pool and spill without Helen being aware of why she was crying. Tears and spit, come and sweat…and the soft liquid spill from her cunt easing the way for Connor’s fingers, tongue and cock—or whatever toy he pushed inside her.

  She lay in the quiet darkness, displayed, offered up to Connor’s touch and gaze, and waited without impatience for the stroke of a finger, the biting kiss of a strap or the warmth of his come if he chose to jerk off on her, spattered over her skin, marking her with his scent. He’d leave it there, smeared over her skin, drying to an itch that was a reminder she didn’t really need. She knew who he was, who she was…and it wasn’t the collar she wore these days that told her that, but every time Connor looked at her, his eyes filled with a contentment she’d put there.

  The dragged rasp of a struck match couldn’t penetrate the plugs, but she could smell the match burning and, unscented or not, the melting wax of a candle.

  She tensed, anticipating the flash of pain, quickly fading, when the candle was tipped, melted wax dripping down over her tight, hard nipples or into the hollow of her hipbone, but Connor surprised her with cold instead, a slippery, blunt-edged ice cube that burned as fiercely as the wax would have done, painting swirls like frost patterns over the soft skin of her inner arms.

  Her calm shattered as that was followed by the lash of a whip, falling lightly across her thighs, the scrape of a feather’s quill across her belly, writing love words in scarlet, imprisoned blood rising to the surface as he scratched her skin, never breaking it. She could still smell the candle, but that didn’t mean that he would use it…it could be there simply as illumination, the other lights turned off after she’d been blindfolded, or because he liked the play of wavering shadows and light across her skin.

  With a choked sob that emerged as a garbled sound, she stopped trying to guess what would come next and searched instead for acceptance, complete and unquestioning.

  Connor must have seen the change in her, the minute relaxation of muscles, the stillness replacing her restless, if restricted movements, because he gave her time to settle, holding still himself until the only way that she knew she wasn’t alone was her utter trust that he would never leave her like this, ever.

  A tickle of disturbed air was the only warning she had before his teeth fastened over her nipple, tugging at it sharply until she screamed for him, the gag filtering the sound so that it emerged as a plaintive howl. Tears, hot, salt tears, sprang to her eyes and behind the blindfold, she squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating on the pain, desperate to find its borders so that she could contain it. It was like trying to hold water in her cupped hands. She gave up and gave in, finding acceptance again after a struggle, and being rewarded by a melting sweetness as the throbbing from her bitten nipple became pleasure, not pain. Connor stopped biting and took the nipple into his mouth, soothing it with his tongue and sucking at it gently even as his fingers pinched her other nipple mercilessly tight.

  Between one breath and the next, she lost all sense of time as a succession of passing moments. She was in darkness, floating, always had been, always would be, nothing else. She could taste tears in her throat and smell Connor as he knelt over her, naked now, from the brush of his thigh, his belly, the hot hard jump and prod of his cock, but that input was wound around the contentment filling her, the perfect, encompassing pain, and became part of it.

  Connor’s hands and mouth were more urgent on her now and she felt the head of his cock nudge against her sweat-damp skin, her leg, her cunt, slick with moisture, full and ripe, and finally her stomach, come spurting, spattering her skin with warmth.

  She sighed around the gag, her own climax waiting for her, whenever Connor told her to come.

  She hoped that it wasn’t soon. Waiting was the best part.

  About the Author

  Jane Davitt is English, and has been living in Canada with her husband, two children, and two cats, since 1997. Writing and reading are her main occupations but if she ever had any spare time she might spend it gardening, walking, or doing cross stitch.

  Jane has been writing since 2005 and wishes she’d started earlier. She is a huge fan of SF, fantasy, erotica, and mystery novels and has a tendency to get addicted to TV shows that get cancelled all too soon.

  She owns over 4,000 books, rarely gives any away, but is happy to loan them, and is of the firm opinion that there is no such thing as ‘too many books’.

  Email: jdavitt01@rogers.com.

  Jane loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

  Also by Jane Davitt

  Fabulous Brits: Bound Together

  A VERY PERSONAL TRAINER

  Justine Elyot

  Dedication

  To the green tea drinker in my life.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Marlot: Charles C. Smith

  Phish Food: Ben & Jerry’s Homemade, Inc.

  Starbucks: Starbucks Corporation

  iPlayer: Philips Solutions, Inc.

  Whittard: Whittard Trading Limited

  Sainsburys: J Sainsburys Corporation

  Chapter One

  My life back then was full of someones and somethings—non-specific people and objects who needed my attention in various ways. The trouble was that the someones and somethings appeared to outnumber the units of my attention by a factor of about ten to one. To
be frank, things were getting out of hand.

  I had let my gym membership slide, my wardrobe was like a rummage sale and any poor dogs needing bones would have been better off canvassing Old Mother Hubbard. My kitchen table was piled high with parking tickets, overdue bill reminders and dog-eared takeaway menus with the phone numbers circled in black marker.

  Life was getting away from me, and I didn’t like it.

  A typical dinner of the period—pasta à la microwave. In other words, some hardened curly things in a blisteringly hot, tasteless sauce. It hardly embodied temptation. Neither did the pile of unironed clothes, the half-finished tax return or the dishes in the kitchen sink. That bottle of Merlot and family-sized tub of Phish Food on the other hand…

  No, Lara, no. I would sometimes catch myself off guard in the mirror—pale, pasty, carrying several more pounds than my clothes could handle. My skin was dull and my eyes looked tired. I needed a haircut, but the last time I’d managed to get one I liked was in 2005. The messages on my phone told me that I’d missed a dental check-up and my brother’s birthday. The shit was in close proximity to the fan. I was out of control. I had to do something about it. Quickly.

  I opened my handbag and almost shut it again on being confronted with a hundred balled tissues, some capless lipsticks and three metric tonnes of loose change. But I had to brave the shoulder-borne rubbish dump if I was to make any progress, so I let my fingers pluck at the detritus until I unearthed the treasure I sought. The newspaper clipping Shona had given me when we’d met in Starbucks a few days earlier, still intact, not ripped or shredded yet. I’d been ten minutes late for our meeting and she’d been angry—actually really angry, not the kind of eye rolling ‘it wouldn’t be Lara if she wasn’t a bit late’ indulgent exasperation. I was hot at the memory of it, and so ashamed of myself.

  “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you, Lara, that constant lateness is incredibly disrespectful? It says, ‘My time is worth more than yours.’ Well, guess what? Your time is not worth more than mine. You need to sort yourself out.”

  “I’ve tried, Shona, I really have…” I wailed, teary-eyed.

  “I know you have.” But her face was still grim. Forgiveness was a long way off yet. “You’ve tried. But your willpower alone isn’t enough, is it? Look.”

  She handed me the clipping.

  Special Introductory Offer. Fifty-Percent Off All New-U Life Coaches This Month.

  “New-U?” I said, squinting at the advert, which was phrased in that evangelically positive and uplifting type of language I found really irritating.

  “Yeah, I know how it looks. I wouldn’t have answered that ad either. But I’ve had an excellent personal recommendation from a friend. She was on the verge of a stress-related illness before she hired one of these people—the change in her is incredible. It’s taken ten years off her. And she’s given up smoking, too.”

  “That’s…very interesting. I don’t smoke, though.”

  “No, but you are so disorganised it’s a wonder you manage to get dressed in the morning.”

  “Sometimes I don’t,” I confessed ruefully. “And do you remember that time I forgot to do up the zipper on my—”

  “Yes. I remember. And so does every man in that pub.”

  “I don’t mean to be so hopeless…”

  “I know. So get help.” She softened then, pushing over the rapidly cooling Americano she’d bought in advance of my arrival. “Will you promise me, Lara?”

  I mumbled some words that might or might not have been a promise. And, three days down the line, there I was, staring at the clipping, mobile in hand, ready to commit myself to…self-improvement. Ugh. It sounded so goody-goody and smug. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling and noticed that mouldy patch I’d been meaning to get checked out. Right. That’s it. I punched in the number, intending to leave a message on their answerphone, but to my consternated surprise, somebody answered the call. Why were they still in the office at seven?

  I coughed a little, over their words of introduction, and remembered what Shona had said. Ask for Dexter. Dexter was the alleged miracle worker who’d rescued Shona’s friend from the brink of gibbering lunacy.

  “Yes, I was wondering if I could book somebody…was looking at your special offer in the paper…do you know if Dexter is available?”

  “Dexter? Oh, he’s very busy just now—”

  “That’s okay. Forget it.” I said the words in a grateful rush, feeling that I’d been let off the hook, or stepped back from the precipice. “I’ll…leave it for now.”

  “No, no, just a second. He has a cancellation. He could see you tomorrow afternoon. Of course, daytimes don’t suit everyone…”

  I could have just said I was working…but the lie wouldn’t come. Not that it was a lie—I work from home, so in theory, I might have been working…but it was more likely that I’d be watching soap operas on iPlayer.

  “No, no, tomorrow afternoon is fine.”

  Am I mad? Tomorrow afternoon is not fine at all! I have three deadlines to meet before Friday.

  “Great. Our coaches usually like to meet with you in your home, so if you want to call a friend or family member to be with you for your first appointment—”

  “Wait! You said…in my home?”

  “That’s right. It’s much easier for them to get a picture of your needs and challenges if they see you in your home setting.”

  I looked around at my needs and challenges. The room was busting at the seams with them. This organiser man was going to back out of the house screaming. And I couldn’t possibly get everything tidy by tomorrow afternoon.

  “I’m not sure…I don’t think…could we not meet at your office?”

  “Dexter is very clear on the way he likes to operate. He will want to meet with you in your home. As I said before, he’s quite happy for you to have a friend or neighbour with you…”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Oh. Let me think about this…” I thought I might hyperventilate. Nobody ever came into my flat. It wasn’t as if it was that bad—it just didn’t project the image I wanted people to have of me. I wanted them to see Lara, the charming, slightly distrait, friendly, but busy, city girl. I didn’t want them to see a mess. I wasn’t a mess! I really…okay. I was.

  “Dexter will be booked up to the end of the month…”

  “Oh. okay.” I was a mess. I knew it, deep down. I needed to be cleaned up. Put away. Tied with a neat ribbon. “You’ll want my address then.”

  It was only later, in bed, that the enormity of what I’d signed up for hit me. I had agreed to pay a man to tell me what to do. Paying to be scolded and pushed around by some man! Was I mad? I didn’t know. But I was certainly just a little bit excited…

  * * * *

  With five minutes to go until zero hour, I decided that I’d done what I could. The unironed clothes were in a basket under the bed. The bills and tickets and whatnot were in a perilous stack on one corner of the kitchen table. All pizza boxes, empty wine bottles and ice cream tubs had been consigned to the recycling. I’d found a duster under the sink and had trailed it across a few surfaces, marvelling at the cloud of dust particles I’d disturbed in the process. Dust is so interesting to watch, isn’t it?

  Dishes washed, clutter hidden. Somehow everything still looked wrong, and I wondered if Dexter would eventually come to the same conclusion I had—that my problem was congenital and, as such, untreatable. List making simply wasn’t in my DNA.

  The buzzer jolted me out of reverie. It was two o’clock exactly—had he stood by the door waiting for the second hand to hit the twelve?

  “Hello,” I spoke cautiously into the intercom.

  “Miss Fisher? Dexter from ‘New-U’ here.”

  “I’ll buzz you in.”

  Was that a normal voice? It didn’t seem unusual in any way. Not too high, not too deep, no accent, no speech impediment. Why was I so nervous? I tried to shake the foreboding out of me and remember that I was paying for a service! That put me in the drive
r’s seat, didn’t it? If he didn’t suit me, I could fire him.

  All the same, my skin prickled at the sound of his knock, and I stood a little farther back than I normally would when I opened the door and let him in.

  “Hello, hello,” I chirped, talking too fast and too much, as I always did when I was anxious. “Sorry about the state of the place, do take a seat if you can find one, can I get you a drink, tea, coffee, something colder, or I’ve got hot chocolate, or even wine, though I don’t suppose you drink on duty, do you, like policemen, I suppose…”

  “No, thank you,” he said, placing a laptop bag on the cleanest rectangle of the kitchen table.

  “Really? The cups are clean, I can vouch for it, I washed them up just now…”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  It wasn’t quite a smile, more a tightening of the facial muscles. He sat on a kitchen chair and unzipped his bag. He hadn’t shaken my hand or introduced himself, yet. I felt his manners left something to be desired, and I couldn’t help but say so.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Dexter,” I said, holding out a hand. “I’m Lara Fisher. This is my home.”

  He looked up, slightly impatiently, and nodded. “Yes. Can we move on from formalities? We have a lot to get through in a short space of time. Please take a seat.”