Own Me, My Love

by Reese Gabriel

  "Yes, ma'am.” He cocked his head. “Ma'am, are you all right."

  The look of concern touched her. He seemed so much older than his calendar years. Would he go to his girlfriend now? The little blonde? Carrie hoped he was strong with her, making her give him his due as a male. He must be tired after working so hard. He needed soothing, soft kisses on his muscles, a small, feminine tongue to lick the salt from his skin. A female to heed his every word, to give pleasure. On her knees.

  "I ... I'm fine,” Carrie managed a smile. “May I fix you something before you go? Some supper?"

  His eyes narrowed, deliberating. “I really should be going."

  Her eyes passed to the floor between them. “I'd like to do something ... to thank you."

  Carrie's heart raced. She knew not what she was she was saying. If he she could call her bluff...

  It was right, though, and unavoidable. She was a hot, horny slave girl and she wanted to serve ... someone.

  "You're here alone,” he noted.

  "I'm a widow."

  He wrinkled his lips, running his hand through his hair. He was young; he had so little to lose. “You got any beer?” He wanted to know.

  "Roger kept some, I think. I'll check."

  She found a six-pack, imported. Roger's favorite brand. She wasn't allowed to touch it. She wasn't allowed to touch anything. Quickly, she poured the contents of a can into a tall glass. It foamed onto the counter. She wiped the outside of the glass, and left the mess.

  Her hands trembled as she rinsed them under the water of the sink. “I'll be there in just a sec,” she called out to the painter, who'd moved out to the back deck by now, overlooking the ocean.

  "That's fine. I'm enjoying the view."

  It occurred to her now that she'd never actually called him by his name—Sean.

  "Thanks,” Sean took the glass from her. “Aren't you having any?"

  "No ... thank you.” Force of habit. Serving the male.

  He took a deep drink of the beer. The sky was darkening overhead. If this were the west coast of Florida, they'd see the sunset over the water. As it was, they would have to wait to until morning, for the sunrise.

  A chill went down her spine as she thought of the implications. If he stayed the night it would be to enjoy her body ... to take his fill of pleasure. But that wouldn't happen, not with him having that little girlfriend.

  Would it?

  "How old is she?” Carrie asked, as if they'd been talking about her out loud.

  "Who, Leila? She's nineteen.” He swallowed heavily, chugging. “She's just a kid, really."

  Carrie's pulse quickened. Was there a message in this for her? “She's awfully pretty, though,” she observed cautiously.

  He downed the rest of the beer. “Not as pretty as you."

  Carrie's knees went weak. Leaning over the railing as much for support as for anything, she said, “You don't have to humor me, just cause I'm paying you. I won't deduct for telling the truth. I'm old and you know it. Nearly old enough to be your mother, I bet."

  He put his elbows on the rail, his hip touching hers. “I've been with older women. A couple of my mother's friends. I prefer them."

  The heat of his body was scorching. She wanted to pull away but something kept her rooted in place. Thank the gods she was able to look at the ocean right now and not his eyes. “Why's that?” She challenged. “You think we're desperate to please?"

  He shrugged. “You just know your way around, that's all."

  The breeze caught her hair. She was feeling so open, so free. “Sean, do you know what dominance and submission is?"

  "What? You mean whips and chains and all that?"

  "Sort of. It's more than that, though. It's a state of mind. It means ... a kind of attitude. In my case, I'm a submissive. Roger, my husband, he was my ... my Master."

  There'd she'd said it. Now let the chips fall where they might.

  He looked at her dead on. Intrigued as hell. “No shit?"

  She nodded yes. Why was she telling him this? Why in hell wouldn't the whisky in her belly shut the fuck up.

  "So that made you what ... a slave?"

  "Yes. Though I was never a very good one. I was too proud. Willful."

  Sean had this glazed look, like he knew there might be something in this for him, if he could figure out the angle. Maybe he wasn't all that monogamous with pretty blonde Leila after all, she thought.

  "But he did stuff to you, right? And you let him?"

  Carrie licked her lips. There was expectation in his voice, energy. Could it be Dom energy? “Naturally; I belonged to him,” she let the image sink in. “My body was his. To play with. To punish."

  Sean whistled. “Damn."

  "I think you like that idea,” she smiled.

  "Who wouldn't?” His pupils had dilated by now. His nipples were stiffening. She could make out the outline of his cock under the tight, faded jeans. Sean was aroused, and doing little to hide the fact.

  "So you don't have a Master now?” He asked.

  "No,” she replied. “And I'm not looking, either. Would you like another beer?"

  "Sure.” He gave her the glass off the railing where he'd set it down.

  "I'll be right back,” she announced her retreat. God, what was she doing—trying to lead him on? Why didn't she just put up a sign, advertising herself as a desperate, sex starved widow. What he must think of her, sharing such intimate details about herself, with a perfect stranger...

  After he finishes this beer, she decided, I'll send him on his way. Cut me losses before I'm in totally over my head.

  "Thought you might need a hand."

  "Sean.” Carrie stiffened in reply. He'd come up behind her at the counter. And it wasn't just one hand he was offering, but two. One on each side of her waist. “That's not a very good idea,” she said.

  "I thought you didn't get to decide what happens to you,” he rasped. “Being that you're a slave and all."

  Carrie knew she was stuck now. His dick was pressing her ass hard. She wouldn't hold out against him, not for a second. “I'm not anyone's slave now. I told you that."

  "What if you were mine?” He challenged.

  She drew a sharp breath—stabbed with a white-hot blade. Instantly her nipples peaked, her stomach flip flopped. “You have a girlfriend,” she reminded. “Why don't you dominate her?"

  "Leila's too young. I told you that.” He bent to nuzzle her neck. Without asking, he began to pull up the hem of her sundress.

  "Sean, please don't do that.” Carrie knew she was doomed, because she was already begging. The power was his ... he'd laid claim to it.

  "I saw you watching me today,” he told her. “I knew you wanted me."

  "I'd hoped I was being subtle.” Carrie squirmed in vain, trying to get free. Sean had her dress up to her waist. She had nothing to protect her now but her now but her silk panties. “Really, Sean, you need to go."

  "You don't want me to go. And you know it."

  Damn him for his perceptiveness.

  "No, but I need you to go."

  "What kind of things did your husband do?” He asked, slipping his hand under the waistband of her panties.

  Carrie moaned. The feel of his bare hand on her buttock, even casually like this, was draining the fight from her. “He ... her spanked me,” she confessed hotly.

  "And you liked that?” He rubbed her, nice and soft.

  "Sometimes.” She craned her neck, hoping for a kiss. “When he did it for foreplay. Other times it was just ... punishment."

  Sean pulled her panties down, to the top of her thighs. “You were a naughty girl?"

  "Willful,” she repeated, feeling the cool air on her pussy. “Disobedient."

  "A spanking made you behave?"

  She fell back against him, her voice a hiss of hot desire. “Yes ... for a while."

  "What if I spanked you now?"

  "Oh, god,” she groaned. “You don't have to. I'll do what you tell me. Whatever you want.
"

  Sean spun her around for a kiss, hot and hard. His lips were like fire. She melted at once. Power surged through him as he claimed her mouth, his tongue plundering.

  "Mmm,” she moaned meaningfully as he pulled her away from the counter, far enough to deliver a firm swat to her ass.

  Sean claimed the second cheek, delivering an equally hard blow. “The dress,” he said, breathless. “Take it off."

  Carrie pulled it over her head.

  "Damn,” he said, drinking in the sight of her in bra and panties. “You're one fine looking woman."

  "And you're a beautiful specimen of manhood,” she touched his chest in admiration.

  Sean put his hands on her smooth bare shoulders. She knew from the slight pressure he was applying what he wanted, what was expected.

  "That's it,” he approved as she sank to her knees on the kitchen floor.

  Carrie unzipped him, like Christmas morning. The huge cock practically sprang out of the opening. Sean helped by opening the button on the fly. Using her deft fingers, in a spirit of eager worship, she pulled his naked spear free of all encumbrances.

  "That's it,” he grunted as she kissed the tip. “Show me how it's done. Show me you're a better cock sucker than Leila."

  Carrie's pussy gushed at the dirty, demeaning talk. What woman wanted to have her sexual performance so graphically compared to that of another? None—unless the woman happened to be a submissive slut who got off on degradation.

  Sean laughed, noting the sudden passion in Carrie's kisses. “That turns you on, doesn't it? How about this, then; after I'm done with you, I'm gonna go dip my wick in her. She won't even know the difference."

  "But, Sean,” she felt obligated to protest. “She's a nice girl, you don't want to cheat on her."

  Fine time for me to think of that ... after leading him this far.

  "Just you stick to worrying about what you're supposed to—slave.” Sean took her by the back of the neck, coiling his calloused, workingman's fingers in her silky hair. There was no hesitation in him or ambivalence as he guided her mouth onto his cock.

  She was fortunate to be experienced ... no danger of gagging for her as she took him deep as she could manage. He grunted at once, indicating she was doing it right. Swiftly, she moved her head back and forth, allowing her tongue to run along the vein underneath.

  Almost at once he began to shudder. She was bringing him off, leaving him no option but to climax. Carrie wasn't sure why she was doing that—perhaps just to get rid of him, or else just to maximize that feeling of temporary subjugation she'd been so long missing.

  His spurts were thick and warm. He had the fullness of youth behind him, a full load to splash against the back of her throat. Carrie swallowed it down, every last bit of it. She hadn't tasted a man like this since Roger. Sean was a little saltier, but otherwise much the same.

  She loved the feel of his cock, surging and swollen as he ejaculated. The flesh was warm and smooth, eminently delicious. Wrapping her arms around his tight ass, she held on as long as possible, not wanting to end the experience. His continued moans were like music to his ears.

  That and the sound of the sea, the tide rushing in. She'd forgotten how beautiful it could be here, how right things could feel.

  "Baby, that was incredible,” Sean murmured. “You have to let me do something for you,” he helped her to her feet.

  How could she explain how jarring that was—what a turnoff for him to be so solicitious ... almost submissive.

  "No, it's all right,” she insisted. “Truly. That was all I wanted."

  He frowned, awkwardly. “I can't just leave you..."

  "Sure you can, I'm a big girl.” She stroked his cheek. “Honestly, I am fine, though I appreciate you being such a gentleman about things."

  He narrowed his gaze. “If you thought I was serious about that slave stuff, I was just kidding. I'll give you whatever pleasure you like. My tongue works pretty good, and no bragging, but I'll be hard again in about five minutes."

  "I know you weren't, and it's okay.” Carrie hid her deflation. She was disappointed, though it wasn't his fault. He couldn't help being who he was sexually. Anymore than she could. “You're a really great guy. Leila's lucky to have you."

  "But I don't do it for you, right?"

  "You're gorgeous, Sean. You're incredible. That's not it."

  "It's the dominant thing? Cause I could do that, if you show me how."

  She touched his cheek. “That's sweet of you, but if I have to show you, well it kind of defeats the purpose, don't you think?"

  "I guess,” he shrugged. “I wouldn't really know."

  "Go find Leila. Make love to her."

  "You'll be okay? All alone?"

  "I have been so far..."

  He nodded, a bit reluctantly. “I'll be out first thing in the morning. To finish the job."

  She helped him with his pants. “You do that."

  Carrie wanted Sean to go quickly, she was awfully close to crying. It wasn't about him and she didn't want him to misconstrue. That was the trouble with grieving. People wanted to help, and after a while, when they couldn't, they either grew distant or impatient. Even the best of friends could be separated this way.

  She watched him drive off in the truck. He was a good young man. She hoped he and Leila would end up together. You had to find your happiness in life where you could. Before fate intervened and snatched it away.

  I'm going to be an old maid, she thought. Certainly there were worse lots in life. At least she could choose where to end up. It would not be here, at the ocean. That much was clear. In fact, she was determined now to cut this trip short. First thing in the morning, she would head back to the city. Whatever else needed to be done here could be handled by the real estate agent.

  With any luck, she'd make it out before Sean came to do the painting. Or that arrogant police chief could pop in again for another Gestapo visit.

  Because as wrong as a vanilla young man like Sean might be for her, Grant was a million times worse. Unspeakably, horribly wrong. And that went double for the way that he kept popping back into her mind, powerful and immovable ... a pussy wetting force, with all the malevolent control and passion of a genuine dominant.

  Grant was a dangerous man. Maybe not to everyone else, but to her. And it was her job to protect herself. Kneeling at the feet of Sean meant very little—it was a passing thrill. But if she should ever do such a thing before a man like the police chief, there was no telling if he would ever let her rise again.

  Much less allow her to keep her freedom.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carrie's car was gone when Grant arrived. According to Sean Wayan, the painter, he'd just missed her.

  "She was heading back to the city,” he explained. “She seemed in a real hurry, too. Told me to just finish up the job—gave me all my money in advance, cash."

  Grant swore under his breath. How could he have let her slip through his grasp like that? True, he was trying to get rid of her, but still, he'd planned on handling matters in a certain way.

  That way had included seeing her face, one last time. Getting to look in those incredible eyes of hers. To smell the scent of her body, jasmine and orchid. To think about how smooth her skin was, how completely touchable.

  And how he wasn't going to touch her, no matter what.

  "Is something wrong, Chief?"

  "No. Just tell her, if she happens to come back, that I'm looking for her."

  "Yes, Sir."

  Grant seldom had the opportunity to use the flashing lights on his cruiser. Chasing down a woman he was inexplicably obsessed with was not the greatest reason, but at the moment it would have to do.

  Last night hadn't been a good one. He'd not slept a wink. Carrie was in his mind the whole time. If he wasn't wondering what she was doing, he was slipping into reveries, imagining himself back in the dungeon, where he'd made love to her tied up.

  At one point he dreamed he was fighting off all the othe
r men, for the sole right to take her. She was blindfolded, naked and helpless. The men kept coming and he had to beat them off, one by one. She was crying out, begging to be held, to be punished and used as the slave she was.

  Roger was there, white as wallpaper paste, laughing. “I told you, Grant. You can never make her into what you want. She's a slut. My slut ... to share with the whole world."

  He tried to argue back but every time he opened his mouth nothing came out but ocean water and beach sand, a spewing of sea stuff all over the dungeon floor.

  Grant woke up about five, in a cold sweat. He took a bracing shower and went for a run. Never mind that he'd just run the night before and that he'd be running again tonight if he didn't get to see Carrie again.

  What he'd say to her if he did catch up, he hadn't a clue. He'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

  A couple of tourists had to pull off the road to get out of his way. He was breaking regulations doing this. It wasn't like him, not at all.

  He spotted Carrie's coupe about a hundred yards before the town line. He was cutting it close, jurisdiction-wise. Easing the cruiser up behind her back bumper, he gave her a quick blow of the siren. She looked at him in the rear view, the expression on her face indicating a combination of emotions, from indignation to confusion.

  Grant certainly understood the confusion part. Whatever was driving him to do this, it was something bigger than both of them. And he could only hope it was going to turn out to be a force for good in both their lives.

  Never one for religiosity, he uttered a quick prayer to the spirit of Roger, wherever he was.

  If there's anything at all sensible in what I'm doing, than back me up. If not, than let me get out of here as quickly as possible. With as much dignity as I can keep.

  Carrie was pulling over. His heart thudded in his chest. Genuine fear filled him ... and desire. This was it. The moment of truth.

  * * * *

  What the fuck?! Thought Carrie as she pulled her car over to the shoulder. What was this cop's problem? First he gives me the cold shoulder, treating me like a complete persona non grata and now, when I try and leave, he's stopping me on the way out of town.