by Q. Zayne
Contents
Teaser
Secrets
Dedication
Copyright
Into the Darkness
Return to The Spanker
Training
Teaser
Secrets
Submission Island 3
BDSM
Curvy Submissive & Older Dom
Cleo & Marcus
by Q. Zayne
Dedication
To T, for his wisdom, kindness and generosity,
and to D, who inspires me with her spirit and discipline.
And to my readers. I treasure your reviews.
Copyright
Do not post any of our stories on any site.
Copyright ©2017 Hughes Empire. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author except for brief excerpts in a review. Cover photo ©Deposit Photos and the photographer, all rights reserved. The use of the photo doesn’t suggest endorsement by the photographer nor the models, nor does it imply anything about the models.
Electronic book publication: April 2017
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses, entities, creatures or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All people, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are over 18. This work is for mature readers 18+.
Into the Darkness
Into the Darkness
The click of my high heels in the cool hallway gave the place a lonely and ominous feeling, even though my nerves thrummed with the anticipation of the magic we made here. I tried not to do it, but when I thought of Marcus, my mind was full of ‘we.’ There was no point in thinking of this as though it was a relationship. But what was it?
I hesitated at the door. The sign that first attracted me marked it, though I could have found my way to it blindfolded. The Spanker. Unlike the first time, there was no question I’d enter the room. I was here to see Marcus, to experience him, and yes, us. That was the magnetism of sadomasochism, part of it, the synergy that happened with a partner in those hidden places, when I was naked in my desire and he met me with his. Nothing else moved me this way.
I opened the door.
The music surprised me. I hurried in and shut the door, as though trying not to let the sounds out, the way I’d take care to keep the cat in, even though I’d been relieved not to see the cat again. Its presence at the first session made me jealous.
I recognized the rhythms, though I couldn’t name the instruments. It was some kind of Middle-Eastern music, the kind belly dancers used. Did he somehow know I took a couple of classes in college? Despite my initial qualms about being big, it was a wonderful experience, one of the best things I did to make friends with my body.
Marcus sat smiling in the enormous armchair where he gave me such delicious attention. His head and fingers move in time with the music.
He was doing neck isolations, and doing them well. I’d had the pleasure of watching troops of male dancers performing Middle Eastern dance. It was exquisite to see the male form performing such erotic dance moves. The precision and sensuality delighted me, coupled with muscularity and strength. Male hula dancers excited me, too. Too many Westerners were so bizarre and rigid about masculinity and femininity. There was nothing unmanly about dance.
The precise moves of Marcus’ majestic head, confirmed his mastery in all the ways he used his body, whether he was spanking me or impaling me. What other skills did he have?
I gave him a shy smile and headed for the shelf to remove my dress. I felt like a pupil demonstrating she knew this part.
“No, Cleo. Stop right there.”
I stopped. I trembled. His deep, commanding voice had that effect.
“There’s a purpose to the music. You will undress to it. Draw it out. No more yanking off your clothes for physical education class.”
I blushed. He hadn’t said anything at the time, but he’d noted my resentful undressing.
“Yes, Master.” I stepped out of my heels and slid them to the wall. This was a barefoot dance. I dropped my self-conscious urge to tiptoe and arch my back. Belly dance was a different way of being in my body, one I learned to enjoy. I took a breath, feeling the tile floor.
“Take your time. Feel the music. Don’t even lift your hem yet. I want you to sway in time. Feel it. Take the music into you. Breathe it in. Move with it in your heart. Feel it low in your belly, in the hara. We’ll be making use of this practice. This will become a foundation for more pleasure. Honor it. Honor yourself. Close your eyes for a moment and cast away all thought. It’s all you and the music now.”
I obeyed. The enchanting rhythm, the sweet wind sound, the chimes, all spoke to me. The music entered me through my pores, all my openings. I invited it, took it in, and guided it to my heart and hara, between my navel and clit. I sensed it in my crown chakra and between my pussy and ass. I glowed with it. I loosened, breathed, let it sway me. I stayed there, easy on my feet, ankles fluid, joints soft, allowing the sounds to move me like the wind in a palm. My feet tingled, my toes livened. I lifted my foot and it swung like a metronome.
I didn’t know what I was doing. It was nothing from class. I become a shape for the instruments, a marionette for the dance. I went with it, relaxed with the sense of being possessed. My heart fluttered. My hands rose like butterflies.
Marcus’ eyes widened. I brought my focus back. Only me and the music. Only Marcus could bring this out of me, draw me to perform as though I was free, as though I never had fear or shame, sadness or rejection about my big body.
The music rose into my thighs and hips and shook me. I jiggled there. I let it all go and shook like an earthquake, like a pussy quake. I felt the roots of childbirth preparation in the dance.
I worked my hips like sex. I rocked him, feeling Marcus’ cock in me. I danced on his cock, slipping low, my knees folding, taking me down on him, bobbing in the air, exposed in my desire.
I gripped my dress and raised it slow, like a curtain.
Marcus took in his breath. I slid my hem over my lilac panties and dropped it fast. Only a glimpse. I’d make him wait. He wanted it slow, he’d get it slow.
I drew my hand across my face, revealing my wicked smile. I danced my hip in a circle, leading with it, adding a shimmy, my body a hard curve in space, changing the flow of time.
I went back, back to the origins of dance.
I toned my body, I made my sex tight and tighter, thinking of Marcus, thinking of his erection and his seed.
I pulled myself back, into the music, into the backwash of time. In a tent in the desert, I did a back bend all the the way to the carpet. I eased backward, pulling my dress up as I went down. I flattened myself to the floor and came up with my shoulders, my breasts shaking. I arched up to my knees, shimmying and rising, becoming tall, camel walking toward Marcus and away.
The rhythms grew more insistent. I raised my hem in the back, slinking the dress up and down my thighs. Marcus’ breathing quickened. I bent over, exposing my ass, working everything in time with the music, my cheeks shaking. I slid the dress up and down, revealing my panties sliding into my crack, concealing my ass, teasing him.
I moved in a circle, hiding and flashing. I pulled up my hem and danced with my dress over my face, holding my arms overhead: veiled and bound, a harem gift for the sheik. The flutter came from low in my belly, jiggling as I gyrated my hips in a cock-gripping slow grind. The flutter rose, shaking my breasts.
I arched back, going low to the floor, rising again, hips and thighs working all the way, my entire
body jiggling. My feet made love to the floor, arching, lifting off and landing, keeping the wonderful rhythms in my walks and turns. Movement became joy. My whole being moved for Marcus from my desire and my heart.
I lived in the music, forward and backward in time, no boundaries. I gave birth with my hips toned from all this magic. I pleased my husband— I —. I put my hands over my face. I brought myself back, back, back. I stamped and made myself feel it, right now, no death scenes, no losing the husband I loved back in my desert life. Right now, right now. Dance.
I danced in a frenzy, whirling and wild. I ripped my dress and cast it from me. I yanked my panties far up my crack and danced with them rubbing my clit. I unhooked my bra. I stripteased it super-slow down my overflowing breasts. I eased it off, revealing my erect nipples. I swung it over my head. Inspired, I sling-shotted it to the shelf.
With mincing steps, I eased my panties down, dancing closer to Marcus in an enticing figure eight that brought me almost in reach and then away. I knew he could smell my arousal. I could. I hooked my thumbs in my panties and teased them down. When my pubes were about to show, I slid them back up and danced away, shimmying my hips. I approached and retreated, sliding my panties lower right in front of Marcus on each pass.
I slid them half way down my ass, shaking it.
He grabbed me.
“Vixen. Sorceress. I’ll have those panties off now.” He ripped them off of me.
They burned as his force whipped them from my skin.
He turned me and buried his face in my pussy. He inhaled.
“Mm, delicious. You’ve turned yourself on. You’re good, so tantalizing. I’ll have you strip for me often. Look what you’ve done.” He gestured at his tented pants.
Men got erections all the time, yet I felt proud, delighted in him giving me credit.
Marcus rose from the chair, steadying me and guiding me to step back from him. He reached for something draped over the back of the chair. His body had hidden it. He shook the lashes out into the music-laden air of the room. Leather mingled with my scent.
A whip. A heavy black leather flogger with a studded handle. Suitable for an SM dungeon or a scene from ancient Rome. I swallowed.
“I want to whip you, Cleo. With you warmed up and your blood coursing through your skin, it’s an optimum time. This isn’t a punishment. More of a reward. This is an intimate thing. Since you came to this room for a spanking, I want to make sure your want this.” He lashed it through the air.
The sound of it excited me. My pussy pulsed.
“I want it. Yes, please, Master. I do want it, Marcus.”
“You’re going to get it then, Cleo. Dance.”
He whipped me as I danced. Soft lashes like rain delivered with perfect control.
“Good, beautiful.” He held the whip at rest, his breathing moving though his powerful body. “Show me with your body if you want more, and where you want it. Speak to me with your flesh, Cleo. Dance for me.”
I danced, exposing myself, giving him my longing, offering all the tender zones of my being for his whip, his pleasure.
He lashed my breasts, my belly, my upper arms, my back, my thighs, my hips, my ass, my quim. It felt so good. I kept dancing into the radius of his magic and he took me higher. I felt entirely safe, exquisitely wanted. I’d entered into the heart of the Mansion of Desire.
“Wonderful. Over the chair arm now, ass to me.”
I assumed the position, arching my ass at him. He stepped back and snapped the tails into the middle of one cheek. I shrieked. He put power behind the next ones. The lashes turned from rain kisses to the sexiest kind of pain.
“Ready?”
“Yes, ready.” I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to give this to him. I sensed it was special for him. For me, in a sense, it was another test.
I pushed my ass back farther and higher, offering it.
He beat it. He beat me. The heavy flogger pushed me like I’d never been pushed before. The sting turned to dull deep thuds as the heavy lashes pounded me. I needed him. I needed all he had. The intensity of it made me gasp. I bit my arm to keep from yelling. I rose up on my toes as the force of his blows rebounded through my entire body.
I shook, trembling from deep inside. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. I panted and rode it out.
He stepped back and delivered a series of burning strokes, the leather abrading my ass. I shook all over, out of my mind from it, wanting it to stop, but wanting it to never stop, wanting to spend my life in the eye of his regard. Let me live in your storm, Master, forever.
He snapped the whip at my sweet spot on each cheek. The burn intensified and glowed.
I huffed out my breath and collapsed.
“Good, so good, Cleo.” He rested his body over my burning ass. “Oh, damn you’re hot. No recovery time for you. I have to take you now.”
He unzipped. I heard the reassuring sound of him opening and applying a condom. His fingers teased me.
“You’re so ready, beautiful.”
I felt drenched, open and aching for him.
“Yes, Marcus. I want you.”
He thrust into me, abrupt and hard, the way I like it best. I moaned from the force of it.
Marcus grabbed my hips and controlled me, fucking me onto him and fucking his cock into me at the same time, deep, sharp penetration that made me gasp and moan. The bulk of his cock hit me just right on the tender spot inside that made me gush. I juiced so much, it felt like a geyser of spray
“Master, if you keep doing that, I’m going to soak the chair.”
“Do it. Do it, my Cleopatra. Spend all over the chair and the floor, and yourself and me!” He gripped my hair and bit my throat. His cock rammed just right and I geysered as he ordered, my juice splattering all over.
He ground his cock deep, roared, and grabbed me with his arms. He squeezed me against his body and came, pumping deep inside m
“Oh, oh, Marcus.”
“Cleo. My beauty. You please me so well.” He kissed his bite on my throat, giving me chills.
I felt so cared for as I rested in his arms in bed. The only thing that seemed off was that we were still in the spanking room in the Mansion of Desire. It reminded me of a therapy office, aside from the bed. What was his place like? What was his life like? Being so removed from his life might be what made our time together possible, but I couldn’t help wanting to know. I suspected he was outrageously wealthy.
I ran my finger through the hair on his chest. I encountered a scar.
“What’s this?” I blurted it before I thought. I blushed. I probably shouldn’t ask personal questions.
He stilled my hand with his, drew it away from the thick scar tissue that told of a deep wound.
“It’s from an accident. Paramedics were amazed I lived.”
I rose up on my elbow. His grimace told me there was more to the story.
“A few years ago.” I didn’t mean to say it. The wound healed and faded, but it wasn’t an old scar.
“Yes.” He sighed. “I should have died. The car went out of control on black ice. We were on the way home from a Christmas visit to my wife’s parents.” He swallowed. “The car went off the road, hit a boulder. They were killed on impact. Emily and Amy, my wife and daughter.”
“Oh, no.” I covered my mouth.
“I couldn’t believe it. I kept trying CPR. So much blood, and Amy’s head hung wrong. Her neck was broken. Emily’s skull was fractured so severely, the coroner told me that even if by some miracle she’d lived, she would have been too brain damaged to function or ever know me. It took a long time for the rescue crew to find us. They had to cut apart the car to get us out. I was in shock the whole time, kept urging them to help Emily and Amy. I couldn’t grasp they were dead.”
“I’m so sorry.” I wanted to take it back, my inquisitiveness that caused him pain. Yet it was the first outer-life thing I learned about him. I lay there, torn, staring at his scar, marveling that he survived. He might have be
en taken by the black ice, and I would never have met him to have these exquisite days. Selfish me. Tears threatened.
“I guess I’m too tough to kill.” He squeezed me. His smile came crooked, forced.
“I meant—.”
“It’s alright, Cleo.” He patted my hand. “I’m a haunted man. You may as well know it.”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s part of who you are.” I stopped. I kissed his shoulder. I wanted him to know I accepted him, this and everything.
“We were married here, on the island.” He arched his brows. “Before Isabella opened the sex club.”
“You and Emily got married here?” My curiosity strained at the reigns, but none of this was any of my business. Did they have a dominant-submissive relationship? Was he still in love with her?
“Yes. It was the year after Alphonse died. Isabella invited us to come stay with her. We were engaged, but hadn’t set the date. We loved it here. Emily was enchanted by the ruins. She set herself to digging into the island’s history, ancient and colonial. It was the happiest I ever saw her. She was prone to depression. We— she conceived our daughter here, and we decided we wanted to celebrate our family by being married here. We did it in the ruins, at the altar.”
A chill went through me, envisioning Marcus a few years younger, claiming his bride at those blood-soaked stones. An atavistic, superstitious part of my mind suggested a connection between their wedding ceremony in the ruins and his wife and daughter’s deaths.
“Are you alright? I feel terrible for bringing this up.” I bit my lip.
He patted my hand, more like a friend of the family than a lover. He’d withdrawn in his grief.
“I couldn’t talk about it much the first couple of years. Loss is never over, but it fades. I miss them. On Amy’s birthday, I drink too much, about the only time I do. I imagine her how she’d be if she lived, wonder what she’d like most in school, what she’d want to be when she grew up. She was three.” His voice broke.
