by Dae, Harlem
“This way,” I said and led her to the bathroom with only one thing on my mind.
Ten minutes later, Zara was naked and immersing herself in strawberry and vanilla bubbles—a Helen leftover. The bathroom was hot and steamy, the mirror fogged and the air sweetly laced. Finally I felt like I was repairing the damage.
“Better?” I asked, kneeling at the side of the bath and rolling up my shirt sleeves.
“Heavenly,” she said with a smile and rested her head back.
Quickly I reached for the ends of her hair, tugged upwards so they didn’t become a sopping mass.
She followed my movements and then with a couple of twists and flicks of her wrists secured the rope of black strands onto the top of her head in a wobbling, bun-like shape.
I reached for a flannel and let my hands, wrists and forearms dangle in the water, near her thigh, as I soaked it.
“Victor,” she said, looking at me through heavy-lidded eyes.
“Yes.” I picked up a new bar of Dove soap and set about lathering up the flannel.
“How did you feel earlier, in the summerhouse?”
“Good.” I grinned, thinking about how it had felt to drag her close, by that collar she was still wearing, and spurt my jizz all over her skin. It had been a glorious orgasm and one I’d had absolute control over. I’d known what I wanted and had just damn well taken it. “I felt good until I realised how cold you’d got.”
“I’m warm now.” She paused. “But what I meant was, how did you feel about being my Master? I’m really sorry, I should have asked you earlier—you’re still my sub, it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re okay, emotionally and physically.” A frown streaked across her brow. “I just got so caught up in thinking about me.”
“It’s okay, it was an eventful night. I don’t blame you.” And was I really still her sub? I supposed I was; we’d agreed to just try me being in charge, it wasn’t a permanent thing. Like all of this, us, it was transient. But she continued to wear the collar which gave me some rights as her Master, didn’t it?
“Victor,” she said. “Answer the question.”
I delved beneath the water and placed the flannel on her belly, rubbing a gentle circle. “Odd. I enjoyed it—can’t deny that, it was fucking great—but it’s very different to how I feel when you’re the Mistress.”
“So what are you? Sub or Dom? Do you even know?”
I slipped the washcloth upwards, wiped it over her breasts, enjoying the way her flesh had slanted slightly, given her reclined position. “Yes,” I said. “I think you were right. I’m a sub—but one who might, on occasion, like to be a Master. I just need to learn that pain can be pleasurable, when both giving and receiving. And I hit you—only because you explained the difference and that you said you wanted it, earlier, in the car. I didn’t like doing it. Not to your face, anyway. But maybe…” I trailed off, a vivid image hitting me the way I wanted to hit her. “Bloody hell.”
“What,” she said, resting her hand over mine as I slid it over her body beneath the water. “What are you thinking?”
I swallowed, my mouth a little dry. “Perhaps, Zara, if you’d like me to, that is, I…” I hesitated, not sure how to put it into words, but then I remembered all the crazy shit we’d done. I should just say it. “Perhaps I could smack your arse one day, with that bat thing you used on me in Eden Street.”
She stared at me, her lips parted.
I stopped swishing the flannel over her body. Had I gone too far?
“You’d really like to do that, Victor? Tell me truthfully, you’re not just saying it, are you?”
“That’s the truth.” And it was. Jesus, my dick was springing to life with me just thinking about bending Zara over my knee, clamping her there with my legs and my arm so that she couldn’t escape, and then swatting her buttocks over and over. Until my muscles ached and my breaths were short and she was red, so red.
Another gush of blood to my cock. My heart did an irritating little skip. Maybe the Master in me was a bigger person than I’d first thought.
“Why do you want to do it, Victor? Why do you suddenly want to beat my arse?”
I drew the flannel from the water, the sudden splash loud in the tiled bathroom. “To understand this pleasure-pain thing better. As part of my lessons.” And because the picture in my mind of Zara’s taut little bum, basted scarlet, thrust upwards and ripe for me to play with was making me rock solid. Damn, if she wore that collar, too, whilst I did it… With her hair up like that and her tits pressed into my thigh. I’d have to be naked, too, so I could really feel her, measure each twitch and absorb each bead of sweat.
“As one of your lessons,” she repeated, tipping her head and nibbling on her bottom lip.
I nodded and vigorously re-soaped the flannel. The milky lather coated my hand and then fizzed when I re-dipped it beneath the water line. The creamy-clean scent of Dove would forever remind me of this moment; Zara, the image, the longing in my cock and in my soul.
“Perhaps it could be arranged,” she said quietly.
“Okay.” It could? Great. When?
“And would it just be me offering my arse for you to play with or would it be a whole scene?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Victor.” A line creased between her eyebrows. “You know what I mean. Don’t play dim, I know full well you’re a bright spark.”
I did know what she’d meant, yes, and I was a good student, or trying to be. The answer was brilliantly clear in my mind’s eye “A scene. I want it to be with me in charge, as your Master.” I nodded at the collar. “With you wearing that.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Yes, I thought as much.”
I froze, a thick weight landing in my gut. “You don’t want to?”
“Not right now, no, I’m tired.” She touched her finger to the collar. Stroked its upper rim.
I stared at her fingertip, hoping she wouldn’t demand removal of the collar tonight. It suited her so damn much, more than a wedding ring ever would. “I didn’t mean now,” I said hurriedly. But I would have if she hadn’t looked so exhausted. God knew what was wrong with my cock tonight, it was acting like I’d taken Viagra. Just imagining Zara jerking, twisting, crying out as I slapped her buttocks had an erection straining against my underwear. The thought of her getting wetter with each thwack of the bat had me salivating to taste her, try it out. See just how juicy she would become. How loud she would howl when she came. Would it release the beast in her like it had me, that damn paddle? Would I be able to handle her monster?
“But we will, soon.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “We’ll do it soon.”
“Before our time is up?” I lifted her right hand from the water, began to carefully wash her palm and between her tiny fingers.
It was several moments before she answered. “Yes, Victor, before your lessons are over you can smack my arse until I orgasm.”
Despite the urge to fuck the whole night through, I knew that couldn’t happen, so I left Zara to dry off and went to make us both a hot drink, hoping the ritual of making tea would settle my libido.
Once made, I set hers on the bedside table and sought out a T-shirt for her to wear. I picked a new, black Tommy H number; it was luxury cotton and super-soft. I would have enjoyed her naked, but covered I’d be less likely to ravage a sleeping woman, and also, I didn’t want her getting cold again.
I’d just finished my tea when she padded out of the bathroom naked, hair still twisted on the top of her head like a sexy turban.
“Here,” I said, handing her the T-shirt.
She took it and narrowed her eyes.
“You should wear it. You’re tired.”
“I am.” She slipped it over her head and pointed at the tea. “Is that for me?”
“Yes, I thought you should have something warm to drink before you went to sleep.”
She stepped up close, pressed her palm to my cheek. “You do look after me, don’t you.”
> It was a rhetorical question, I thought. So I simply pressed my lips to the tip of her slightly upturned nose then stepped away. Anymore of those wide pupils or that compliant, almost-naked body close to mine, and she’d be on her knees or over my knee. More words like that and I’d be telling her that yes, I did look after her and I wanted to for so much more than the next few weeks.
Beating down a wave of desire that had become familiar of late, I peeled off my own clothes and got into bed. Thought of Mary again, and her cross-stitch club, the one she attended on a Sunday morning. She often brought me in elaborate tapestries to admire, usually depicting spring gardens or mountain streams.
Luckily pink blossom and sparkling water seemed to tame my monster, and by the time Zara had sipped on her tea and climbed into bed next to me, I was only sporting a semi and the weight of tiredness was settling on me, too.
She snuggled in close, twined her long legs with mine. They were smooth, like satin, the bones seemingly fragile. I pulled her against my body—her T-shirt-covered breasts pressed onto my chest—and the sweet scent of the bath as she settled her head beneath my chin wafted up my nose.
I closed my eyes, let out a long, low sigh, and for once was aware of my heart beating at a nice steady tempo. No crashing about, jumping this way and that, the rhythm, for a pleasant change, not one of a drunken drummer.
Sleep descended, a floating blanket settling over me and embracing my mind like a silky caress, spreading contentment throughout my soul.
Living in Zara’s world was crazy, but it also felt…right.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My waking thought was Victor wants to slap my arse. It didn’t grip me with terror, didn’t fill me with longing either, but it did open up curiosity. I’d been on the other end of the paddle more times than I could count, but to be there, submitting, being hit, harnessing that pain and turning it into an orgasm as I’d ordered others to do… That was new.
But new was something to embrace, surely. I was always telling my subs to welcome stepping out of their comfort zone, that experimenting was fun and all part of discovering sexuality.
Had I really been so hypocritical?
It seemed I had.
A tumble of shame rattled through me. I really should have been on the receiving end so many more times. The odd slap didn’t count. Only once had I let Fifi swat my bum until it was red, but that had been in a show and my mind had been filled with anticipation about meeting some bloke later that evening—I’d had a new flogger to try out on him, nipple clamps too. I’d faked the orgasm and been glad when the stinging slaps had ended.
Mmm, yes, the sooner the better, especially now that I’d had such a wonderful, long sleep. That way I could shake this counterfeit mood. Because I certainly was no fake.
I reached across the bed, expecting to find Victor there, snoring gently, his body warm and solid, the hairs on his legs just waiting to tickle my skin.
But I was greeted with a cool sheet. No sexy man to snuggle into, no morning kiss, and certainly no welcoming cock to set the day off to a good start.
Feeling unaccountably deflated, I turned back over, opened my eyes and was treated to the London skyline. It was by far the most magnificent view I’d ever been greeted with first thing. Spires and steeples, roofs of all shapes, sizes and colours, the winding chocolate-brown Thames and the distant Eye. There was a flock of geese, or some other big birds, following the meander of the river, their wings flapping lazily and in synchrony. They spelt out the letter ‘v’ and I smiled, a balloon of happiness growing in my chest. Even the birds adored my Victor.
My stomach gave a loud growl, and I stretched and got out of bed. The place was silent, and when I glanced at the clock I saw it was only an hour until midday. Victor must have gone to work.
A wander into his large kitchen confirmed this. Attached to the stainless steel fridge door was a note.
Good morning, I’m-too-sleepy-to-know-I’ve-been-kissed,
You looked so content I didn’t have the heart to disturb you but I did have to get into the office for an early meeting. I’d love to rebook these tickets for tonight. Call me, V x
Beneath the note were two tickets for Les Misérables. Damn, I’d forgotten about them. I plucked them off. Bloody hell! They’d been two hundred and fifty pounds each. My stomach tensed. I hated to waste money, and that was a big waste—that was half my monthly rent gone in one go. How the hell could Victor have just kept quiet about it?
I flicked the kettle on then rooted in my handbag, which I’d discarded on the hallway table the evening before, and found my mobile. I drew up the message screen and tapped out a text to Victor.
Why the fuck didn’t you tell me how much those damn tickets were?
I hit send then searched the cupboards for coffee and a mug.
My phone beeped.
You’ve woken in a good mood, then?
I tutted, poured water into my mug and then sent:
I was until I saw these. That is an extortionate amount of money to waste, not even to waste, but to spend on theatre tickets in the first place. No, don’t rebook them!
After hitting send, I reached for the milk, lingering to inspect the contents of his fridge—champagne, Harrod’s quince jelly, a fancy-looking cheese board and a big pack of lean smoked bacon. I grabbed the bacon then switched on the hob and set about hunting for a frying pan. My phone alerted me to a new text.
It’s only money and we had something else to attend to. Do you have other plans for tonight then to replace the theatre?
I stared out of the huge window again, rubbing my finger around the collar I was still wearing—how had that happened? I went to undo it, irritated. It had been a prop in a scene, nothing more.
Hadn’t it?
I froze my fiddling with the buckle. It felt wrong to take it off myself. That was for Victor to do, he’d put it on.
Jabbing at my phone, I sent another text.
Only money? What are you? A bloody millionaire?
A reply quickly came through.
Would it make a difference?
I hesitated. Yes, I’d known he was well off, comfortable, rich even, but a millionaire? I’d never even spoken to a millionaire, let alone swatted one’s arse. Geoffrey had given an illusion of being incredibly wealthy, sure, but a lot of it was loans and favours. He flew by the seat of his pants most months. I knew, I’d seen his paperwork lying on his desk. A complex tangle of wheeling and dealing, despite being in the public eye and that very public thinking he was made of money.
I texted back…
No.
He sent…
Good. So what about tonight?
I thought for a minute, then:
As discussed, you’ve requested another lesson. P.S. You forgot to take this bloody collar off me.
I skidded the phone along the granite counter, found a pan, and within minutes the smoky scent of bacon filled the air. I opened several cupboard doors. There had to be some bread here somewhere.
My phone tinkled just as I discovered a multi-grain loaf.
The collar suits you. Okay, we’ll stay in tonight, at mine, for that lesson. I’ll collect dinner on the way home from the office. X
I flipped the bacon.
What am I supposed to do at your place all day?
Before I’d even pulled the bread from the packet…
Eat my food and masturbate.
I laughed. How well he thought he knew me.
Two hours later and I’d done what he’d said, masturbated in the shower—the nozzle-head on the attachment had been sublime—and enjoyed two cups of coffee with my bacon butty.
A grey drizzle had descended over London, and many of the buildings had interior lights on, the day just not providing enough illumination for people to go about their indoor business. I kept the apartment lights off, not wanting to be seen, and watched the boats on the river, winding their way to and from the estuary. As I stared I considered my waking thought.
Spank. A good, hard spank from Victor.
Tonight I would let him do it. While I still had the courage and the inquisitiveness. I sucked in a breath. The skin on my buttocks tingled at my thought of him wielding a paddle, and an eddy of anticipation filled my stomach. I could feel myself getting damp between my legs as an image in my head formed—me naked, over his knee, or over the sofa, didn’t matter which. Him in those loose sweats he wore that hung from his hips, and his chest shiny with sweat, a few droplets catching in the hairs at his sternum. I imagined the look on his face, an expression to match the masterfulness of his voice in the summerhouse last night, telling me what to do, to take the pain, not to come until commanded to. My arse would be so red, I’d feel on fire, the white heat collecting in my clit, making me clench my pussy.
Could I do it? Would I be able to take it? Not just the pain but the submission? Could I trust him to transport me to a place he’d never taken anyone to before?
But everyone had to have a first time. Wasn’t that what I’d been doing to him when I’d shoved the plug up his arse, made him watch lewd shows and treated him to the paddle?
But this would be both our first times. Me being spanked to orgasm, and him spanking me there.
I nibbled on the loose tag of skin by my thumbnail. What if it went wrong? Perhaps I wouldn’t be able to come. Maybe the pain would make me hate him. I couldn’t bear that. Perhaps a flogger would be better than the paddle, the pain was less solid.
Striding the length of the window, about forty paces, I reached the far wall then turned and strode back, the soles of my feet slapping on the floor. Anxiety was an unfamiliar and, quite honestly, unwelcome companion.
I wrung my hands, repeated my stalk the way a caged tiger would.
An idea suddenly came to me. It wasn’t great, probably not sensible, but it would give me the answers to my questions, therefore it was viable, acceptable.
