by Lilly Black
Pushing out my bottom lip, I glare at him contemptuously as I obey, bending myself over his lap, my feet on his right side and my hands reaching the floor on his left. I can feel the hem of my skirt barely covering my ass cheeks as he smoothes it out with his hand before the first smack comes down so surprisingly firm it startles me. I tense as he brings his hand down again, harder, and though it stings, I like it, feeling the shockwave elsewhere. He strikes again, this time a little closer to the center, and when he does, his hand lingers for a moment, it’s warmth radiating along with the pain.
“Are you wearing a g-string?” Cain asks.
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No g-string,” I say insolently, and he slaps my ass hard for it. I cry out.
“No, Sir,” he demands. Sir. Whatever he intended this game to be before I showed up dressed like this, he did not intend to act as my Master.
“No, Sir,” I say grudgingly, and he smacks me again, coming dangerously close to the middle. As his hand gently massages the sting from my flesh, it inches ever inward until his finger lightly grazes me, and I feel his hard cock twitch against my side.
“Are you wearing crotchless panties?”
“No, Sir.”
“Are you wearing panties at all, Miss Lucien?” he asks, running his hand across my bare ass cheeks, dipping inward between them. He knows I’m not.
“No, Sir,” I say with a seductive, low voice, thinking I am about to get what I want, but I’m wrong. He spanks me again, and feeling his palm, firm and vicious, on the backside with his cock, hard as stone, against the front is too much. I want fucked so badly I ache, but feeling the wetness of my desire only inspires him to torture me more. I get a succession of quick slaps, like a proper spanking punishment before he stops.
“On your feet,” Cain orders me, and when I get up, he guides me to stand in front of him facing the desk. Behind me, I feel his breath on my neck, his lips touching my ear as he speaks.
“How dare you come in here with no panties on,” he hisses. He grabs my braid, twisting it around his hand and pulling my head back.
“What did you think would happen when you came in here like this?” he asks in a low growl, but he gives me no time to answer.
“Do you think I’m weak?” he snarls, forcing me to bend over the desk. He pushes my skirt up to expose my bare ass and spanks me again, but it barely stings at all now as I feel like I’m wet all the way to the back of my knees.
“No, Sir,” I whisper, no longer wanting what comes with my defiance, and as his fingers brush over me from behind, I shudder, free to enjoy this with the lights on, my scars hidden by the position.
“Did you think when I realized you were naked under that skirt, I wouldn’t be able to control myself?” I give him only a moan in response.
“Do you think that just because there isn’t a strip of lace between me and your hot, wet, little pussy, I can’t resist touching it? Tasting it? Making it come?”
Oh, fuck!
“Yes, sir,” I breathe, my voice weak with need.
“I can’t,” he says as he falls to his knees behind me, his tongue darting inside me as I feel his open mouth covering me. His hands push outward on my inner thighs, spreading my legs until his tongue finds my clit, and he knows what this position does for me. It feels dirty, like his words, and every light stroke of his tongue feels like it could be the one to push me over the edge until…he stops.
“Come here, nasty girl,” he says, leading me toward his desk chair where he sits as I stand before him. He untucks my shirt, turning me around to face the desk as I hear the glorious sound of his zipper going down and look back to see his cock waiting for me. He pulls me backward into his lap, guiding me with his hands around my waist until I feel myself sliding onto his cock. With his legs together and mine spread, he lifts and lowers me, quickening the rhythm, setting me on an unstoppable path that ends with me screaming in ecstasy and digging my fingernails into the wood of his desk as he forces me down, ramming his cock so deep into me it aches, holding me there, throbbing and clenching around him. But it’s not the end at all.
“Stand up,” he commands.
“Yes, Sir, I say, happily complying, knowing I’m about to get what I crave more than anything in the world, but when he makes me sit on his desk before him, I realize that the lamp light is brighter than it seemed when I wasn’t about to spread my legs right in front of him. I tense, holding my knees together.
“Spread your legs, Miss Lucien,” he demands, and I shake my head bashfully. He ignores it for now, unbuttoning my shirt and turning my bra cups down to expose my tits, biting my nipples, distracting me.
Gently, he pushes me onto my back as he trails kisses down my neck, parting my legs with his body, knowing that I won’t say no to his cock, but when I realize it was just a ploy to get them spread, I instantly snap them together. Cain sighs, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, then suddenly, he picks up his Tiffany desk lamp and throws it across the room, shattering it against the wall. I freeze, thinking he’s pissed until I notice a smile spreading across his face in the dim light coming from down the hall.
“Spread your legs, Miss Lucien,” he repeats, and when I do as I’m told, he pushes my skirt up and guides my own hand between my legs.
“I want you to keep your hand here opening yourself to me,” he says. Though I’m not comfortable with it, I obey, and Cain begins, using only the very tip of his tongue, the act of holding myself spread open with my own fingers intensifying every slow, soft stroke.
“Give me your other hand,” he says, and he takes my fingers in his mouth, wetting them before he guides my hand to my tit, folding my fingers around the nipple. “I want you to play with your tits for me.” I give him an uncertain look, even more uncomfortable.
“I’m not asking,” he says sternly, and I make the first tentative circle around my nipple with one finger, feeling the vibrations on my clit as he moans his approval. He teases me, making slow, soft circles, but I’m so distracted and turned on by what he is making me do myself that I surprise us both, coming suddenly and forcefully. I thrust myself against his mouth, and he pushes my other hand out of his way, putting both on my breasts, my fingernails digging into my own flesh as he gives me as much as I can take.
When I begin to squirm away, he stands and thrusts into me, and when I try to move my hands, he holds them there with his own, kneading my tits as his perfect, steely cock fulfills its destiny, making me tremble and writhe against him. He leans over me, kissing me aggressively as I scream my adulation into his mouth, my heels dug into his legs to brace him, holding him deep inside.
His game played out, Cain doesn’t resist when I push him back to sit his desk chair and slide into the floor before him. His pants and suit jacket gone, I unbutton his shirt and push him to lean back as I begin leisurely tracing his abs with my tongue, working my way down. When I take his cock in my mouth, I reach for his hands to put them on my head to let him control the pace, but instead he puts them on the side of my face, touching me softly as I move my lips up and down his shaft. When I am gentle, he’s gentle, but as soon as I start moving faster, tightening my grip, he gets rougher, twisting his fingers into my hair as he pulls my face into him. With one hand around his shaft working in unison with my mouth, I keep the other low, making heavy circles with my wet thumb until I take him to the point of no return and allow my thumb to slip just a little lower, right to the edge of the spot he’s afraid to admit he wants to be touched. I hear his breath catch, but it’s already too late to sabotage him as his cock surges, filling my mouth with his warmth.
“Oh, fuck, Evan…” Cain cries, and I keep going until he pulls away from me, his voice now reduced to a barely audible murmur, saying my name over and over again, my face in his hands, his eyes fixed on my throat as I swallow. He likes it when I swallow.
Cain pulls me into his lap, where I curl up, nuzzling into him, the gravity of this situation as it
relates to my past weighing heavily upon me now, crushing the afterglow. By twisting Cain’s game, I fear that I have just inadvertently done the very thing that offended and horrified me when the girls in that chat room suggested that I visualize the abuse event during sex. I didn’t visualize it; I didn’t think about it at all, but I unwittingly recreated aspects of it. I feel the old, familiar guilt gaining a foothold as if the game resurrected the shame of my complicity long ago when I should have fought harder but was too inexperienced and scared. When I was told to prepare to be spanked, I damn sure didn’t offer myself up dressed the part with no panties on, nor were those spankings anything like what Cain’s does to me, but that lowlife son-of-a-bitch probably did see his punishments as a sexual pretext.
And then there’s the matter of Sir…
It was my mother’s second husband, and he tried to force me to call him sir, demanding respect he never earned. I never called him that, not once, and it made him furious that he couldn’t control me. He could punish me. He could overpower me. He could do whatever he wanted to me, but he couldn’t make me do anything but lie there, a wilted, boneless mass wishing I could pour onto the floor and slip through the cracks in the old, weathered hardwoods.
Until Cain came into my life, the bastard had won. Though I was no longer that little girl pushing her hope chest in front of her bedroom door, for the past six years, I was still trapped inside her head and under his control, but as I feel Cain naked beneath me, his arms tight around me and his cheek against the top of my head, I know my abuser no longer has any hold over me. In a bizarre flash, I imagine the sick fuck being forced to watch what we just did, to see me giving Cain everything he could never have from me no matter what he did to me. It’s a disturbing, yet immensely satisfying image.
“You’re so amazing, Evan,” Cain says out of the blue as if he has been privy to my entire thought process.
“So are you,” I say.
“Did you like that?” he asks.
“You have to ask?”
“It’s something I’ve never done before.”
“I thought it was your idea,” I say.
“The office was my idea, but the rest of it was your game.” I don’t buy that.
“It’s okay to admit to it. It won’t make you any more of a pervert than you already are,” I say, but Cain just laughs at me. “At least tell me you liked it.”
“Oh, I very much liked it,” he answers.
“So what game were you playing?”
“I wasn’t playing a game. I was going to do exactly what I did to you.”
“Then why the suit?”
“Position of power.”
“Not even boss/naughty secretary?” I say with a laugh. “You said specifically to call you Sir, so I thought…”
“Master is for the dungeon. Your punishment was that there would be no dungeon tonight.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing that I had read too much into it as I rise to leave the room. “Well, just so you know, Domina is not only for the dungeon.”
“Understood,” Cain says.
“And as such, I suggest you clean up the pieces of that lamp before somebody gets cut.”
“The maid can get it…Domina,” he says with that damnable tone.
“One day soon, I’ll whip that sarcasm out of you, Playboy,” I threaten and walk away. I don’t want to see his reaction because he hasn’t yet learned how he should respond to my threats anymore than I’ve learned to make good on them.
I go to my closet to change, and Lucy arrives shortly with dinner and a cleaning lady, who goes straight to work in the office. I still can’t believe he busted that lamp, especially when I overhear him telling Lucy what happened.
“Damn, Cain,” Lucy says with surprise and laughter. “That was an antique. It cost almost $20,000!”
“It was the best $20,000 I ever spent,” Cain says, and it thrills and overwhelms to know what it was worth to him to give me just that one orgasm.
September 21
I wake Saturday morning to the sweet, vanilla scent of freshly made waffles, and as I lie there thinking about how wonderful Cain is for cooking me breakfast again, the anxiety about tonight starts to creep in. Until now, the event at Torrey Crest Country Club has been part of an intangible future, but today it becomes real. I look at the clock. In less than two hours, Cain will turn me over to someone named Marcel for hair, nails, makeup, etc., then I’ll be zipped into that gorgeous, $5,000 gown and whisked off to infiltrate enemy territory. I can’t wait to see myself in the whole ensemble and Cain in a tuxedo, but I could wait forever to find myself in that den of country club she-wolves. Part of me wants to believe I’m being melodramatic, but a quick memory flash back to Catherine offering me money to leave her son serves as a powerful reminder of the reality of it.
Cain will protect me, I tell myself. It’s becoming my mantra.
As usual, breakfast is amazing, but even more so is the news that Cain has arranged to bring Marcel and his salon to me. As much as I fight to hang onto the part of me that doesn’t care about the things his money can buy, I cannot help liking the lifestyle he provides. I don’t need it and could easily give it all up and work as a bartender for the rest of my life, but it’s nice to be taken care of. I’ve never had that.
Standing in the kitchen after breakfast, I snake my arms around his neck and give him a long, adoring kiss.
“What was that for?”
“For bringing the salon to me, for the dress, for everything.”
“That reminds me. I have something else for you,” Cain says, taking my hand in his and leading me to the sofa.
“Having you with me all the time since Thursday night has been so perfect I don’t want it to end. When I go back to work on Monday, I want to find you here when I get home. I want to wake up beside you every morning, and fall asleep with you every night. I want to take care of you, and I’ll make sure Nicole is taken care of, too.”
“Cain…”
“Hear me out. I could buy Prometheus and fire you, but I don’t want to force you. I want you to do this because you want to be with me, not just to please me.” He pauses as he pulls a crumpled envelope out of his pocket. “My mother forgot to take this with her after she tried to bribe you. Inside now are the starter checks for a bank account in your name. She offered you that money to leave me, so if you ever do leave me, you will have earned it. I want you to have it as security so you don’t have to worry about anything, but I swear you’ll never need it, Evan. I will move heaven and earth to keep you by my side.” I sit there stunned for a long moment.
“Are you angry? Say something.” He seems uncharacteristically nervous, and I just don’t know what to say. I do love the idea of using Catherine’s bitchcraft against her, but…
But nothing! You’re not asking. He’s offering, I remind myself, and before I even make the conscious decision, my head is nodding yes.
“Yes, you’re mad?” Cain scans my face.
“Yes. No. Yes, I’ll quit,” I say, and his mouth curves into a smile. He pulls me into his arms, kissing me so feverishly that if not for the sudden knock at the door, we might have christened the couch here and now. Hearing the lock click, we rise to our feet, but my head is still in the clouds as Lucy walks in followed by one man and a small army of girls in matching uniforms. They’re all either pulling or carrying silver cases.
“You have no idea how happy you’ve made me,” Cain whispers in my ear, running the smooth backs of his fingernails down one arm before offering Marcel assistance.
With amazing proficiency, Marcel and company set up in the master suite, and when Cain said they were bringing the salon to me, he wasn’t kidding. They are prepared to provide a massage, a facial, full hair and makeup design, paraffin wax, piercings, and hair removal almost everywhere if I choose. Cain gave Marcel two limits. Don’t take too much length off my head or wax me anywhere that would require me to wear less than a thong. It seems that despite his fabulousness, Marcel
is straight.
“I’m sure Cain didn’t mean to imply anything,” I feel compelled to explain. “He’s just protective.”
“Protective?” Marcel says with a laugh. “Honey, try possessive, and I’ve never seen him this bad. Don’t worry, though. If you want the kitty bald, my staff is more than capable, though I am the only one qualified to pierce it.” He winks.
“I don’t think I want either of those things,” I say bashfully.
“But we’re still doing your navel, right?” he asks.
I guess I did agree to that.
“It won’t bleed through my dress, will it?”
“We’ll bandage it up flat, and no one will even know you have it pierced.”
“Okay, and what tattoo are you putting on Mr. Ballantyne in exchange for this piercing?” I ask.
“Mr. Ballantyne said that I am to ink anything you want on him.”
Oh, my God! I can’t believe he’s going to go through with it! I don’t even know what to pick. Marcel asks what tattoos I like on men, and though I really like wide, dark blue tribal bands around the upper arms, I would never ask Cain to permanently mark his beautiful body like that for me. When it finally comes to me, I find just what I need in the nightstand drawer on Cain’s side of the bed, and Marcel takes his tools to find Cain.
Turned over to his assistants, I am led to a massage table set up at the foot of the bed facing the windows overlooking the city, and with just a sheet between my bare ass and the rest of the world, several women begin massaging me. It feels incredible, but I’m uncomfortable as hell. That’s how it all began, with a nightly “backrub” at bedtime that I originally took as fatherly affection, and because of what followed, I feel unclean, as if these women can somehow see it and are secretly squeamish about having to put their hands on me. It’s absurd. I know that, but it’s how I feel.
As I lie there fighting the demons in my head, a mix of jasmine and sandalwood drifting in the air, I suddenly hear soft, acoustic guitar music wafting in from the hallway. It’s a beautiful piece that sounds vaguely familiar, distracting me until this torturous massage is finally over.
