Teach Me Tender, Teach Me Rough

by Reese Gabriel

  There would be the guilt, the inevitable delays, but she would call him.

  She would go to him.

  And he would not make it easy.

  Cameron was an addict, humiliation was her drug. Craig was a man of science, a man of reason and of limits. He wanted that white picket fence and the correct number of children.

  Cameron was no mother, no wife—and she knew it.

  The fact that she had lied to Craig as they left Victor’s mansion proved it all.

  So did her jealousy. It wasn’t about not wanting Rachel to get her hooks in Craig, hell, she could care less. Let Rachel try, she was a non-entity. She was a symbol, a test.

  And Craig had failed.

  The first dozen times Cameron got voice mail.

  With each message she grew more desperate. Every recorded word was an indictment, a deeper step into degradation as she grew more graphic, specific and self-abasing. She promised him pleasure, she swore up and down she would take nothing in return. A couple of times she called him a cocksucker and hung up.

  Finally he called her—at two am.

  “Be at the club in an hour,” he said.

  Craig never heard her leave. He was a sound sleeper and she was very, very quiet. She moved like a cat, slipping the black dress over her body, nothing underneath.

  Just the belt, the one made out of chains.

  Would Victor know a way to get it off without anyone knowing?

  Or would he destroy it?

  The choice was his.

  He could destroy her, too, so long as he took her back one more time to that moment, back to that perfect climax, that alternate universe on the bed, where he cared, where he really was that perfect man that didn’t exist.

  The beast with a heart of gold.

  The gold heart that she would only reject if she ever really got hold of it…

  Oh, god she was a hot mess.

  She called a cab from the hallway. She threw two twenties at him as they pulled up to the battered black door.

  Cameron had no ticket this time, no magic silver pass.

  “I’m here to see Victor,” she told the guard, the same man as last time with his oily muscles and smooth shaven head

  He took her inside to an alcove, the same tinny music playing in the background, the same silver lights in the haze.

  “How bad you wanna see him?” he asked.

  She wanted it bad, all right. Bad enough to open her mouth up for his tongue, bad enough to have her breasts mauled though the material of her dress, her ass groped, her shoulders pushed down until her knees hit the dirty floor.

  His cock was waiting, sprung free of the leather pants, hard and throbbing and ready for her. The guard wasted no time Inserting himself and pumping furiously he grunted, once, twice, three times before spilling himself, gobs of warm thick seed between her lips.

  Cameron gulped it down, earning her right to make it to the next step, to the back rooms where Victor might or might not be and where he might or might not give her the time of day.

  “You’ll wear a club collar,” he said. Wadding his fist in her hair he yanked her to her feet like a rag doll. “And cuffs.”

  Cameron put her hands behind her back. The cuffs were leather, secured by links of metal chain. The collar was leather, too, thick and black like the kind worn by large species of dogs. He buckled it tight and clipped on the leash.

  She nearly stumped as he jerked it forward.

  “Move,” he said. “Or I’ll drag you on your ass.”

  Cameron had asked for this. She had a fiancé waiting at home, innocently sleeping. Why wasn’t she happy with Craig? He was giving her everything she’d ever asked for, even the trappings of BDSM.

  That was it. He was giving it to her because she wanted it.

  Not because it was in her nature.

  Craig had made it clear he couldn’t live without her. He would do anything to make it work out. He would jump through hoops.

  Even if it meant making her jump through them…

  It was all so fucked up.

  Victor was simple. He had wanted to fuck her and he had.

  And he’d made it clear he might want more…

  She had seen it in his eyes and now he had confirmed it, calling her here.

  Cameron licked a stray drop of come from her lips now as the guard pulled her through the crowd. Some of the same masters and slaves were there as last time. How different it had all seemed then, how foreign.

  Now she felt at home, all the more so for the eyes upon her, judging, evaluating. She was no visitor now, she was just another slut, here to be used and exploited.

  She tried to look for familiar faces, Chloe or Rennie, perhaps, or the blonde she had seen dancing so intently on that first night.

  Cameron caught the eye of a thin Asian man leaning against the wall. He wore a suit and shiny leather shoes. In one hand he held a riding crop, in the other a leash, similar to Cameron’s. The leash connected to a collar gracing the throat of a buxom dark haired woman.

  The woman, a BBW, was on all fours, her head lowered, her tongue busily licking at the man’s leather shoes. She wore a diaphanous skirt which revealed her creamy ass cheeks and a pair of puffy pink sex lips.

  The Asian man frowned at Cameron and she lowered her eyes. She stayed as close as possible to the bodyguard, risking his annoyance.

  He brought her to the unmarked door, the one that led into the play area.

  Cameron felt a soaring elation combined with a hot-sex infused dread.

  She knew what went on back there in all those rooms and tonight she would not be an observer the way she had been that night in Room 31.

  The guard opened the door and pulled her through. The hallway was pitch-black. She stumbled two more times, crashing into an open door she had not been able to see in the dim light.

  Muttering under his breath, the guard took hold of her upper arm. His grip was steel as he marched her to her destination.

  Was it Room 31 again?

  Would anyone be waiting for her inside?

  The guard finally stopped. She heard the sound of a key in a lock.

  The door opened with a squeak.

  She cried out as the guard shoved her inside. The room was even darker than the hallway. Losing her balance Cameron fell to the floor. The surface was surprisingly resilient beneath her, like foam gym mats. She floundered a bit until, all pretense of decency gone, the guard yanked directly on her collar forcing her to her feet.

  Cameron went light headed as her air supply was temporarily cut off.

  Once she was upright, the guard undid her leather cuffs. Any hopes for freedom were quickly dashed as he pulled her arms up over her head. He reattached the cuffs to some kind of rope or chain suspended from the ceiling.

  Was he going to whip her?

  The next thing she knew the guard was removing her shoes.

  She was on tiptoes now. Her body stretched painfully, her most sensitive parts ill protected.

  She could feel him right in front of her, his breath on her face, the smell of him. She could sense him, sniffing her out for weakness.

  Her whimpers broke the silence.

  It seemed to be the reaction he was waiting for.

  Once, twice, he slapped her breasts, wracking her with pain.

  Again he stared.

  She held her breath.

  This time he left her alone.

  Cameron heard the door slam behind him. He locked it from the outside, as if she could escape on her own.

  She tried to concentrate on the details, the weight of the collar, the feel of the metal leash dangling down her back, the sound of the air conditioner, clicking on and off.

  Despite the cool temperature, sweat collected in all the embarrassing places, underneath her breasts and between her ass cheeks and under her arms. It was the little things you never thought about in a fantasy. Did I put on enough deodorant to withstand unlimited suspension in the darkness?

  And what
about lip gloss—did I use enough to withstand a random anonymous cock sucking?

  She wondered just how long they could leave her in here. Given how free they felt to keep caged girls about surely they would have no compunction about one little chained prisoner?

  Sooner or later, she would have to pee, though…

  Cameron’s suspense came to an end. The door was opening.

  She heard heavy breathing. It was a big man. Her first thought was of the Doctor, but this one had a different smell, slightly sweeter and more complicated, like orange and cinnamon.

  Cameron tensed as he touched her arm. It was surprisingly gentle, finger tips trailing all the way down her side to her hip. He clenched her waist next, steadying her.

  He kissed the back of her neck.

  Cameron held back the moan as long as she could. He was making love to her, the last thing she would have expected in a place like this.

  She would have preferred a beating.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t…”

  He was behind her lifting the hem of her dress, up over her hips, exposing her ass, her pussy.

  Gauging her readiness, he inserted a finger, parting her puffy sex lips.

  Humiliated, she dripped on his hand.

  He was patient, maddeningly so. Using one hand to reach around and massage her breast he continued masturbating her.

  He managed to find her clitoris.

  She held off as long as she could.

  He took an orgasm from her, letting her shudder and writhe and spasm against his hand.

  Then she heard more of the hard breathing and after that a labored grunting sound. Come splashed on her ass.

  He took his fingers, covered in her come and his and put it to her lips.

  Cameron licked them clean.

  When she had completed the task to his satisfaction, the man tugged her dress back down, leaving her as if nothing had happened.

  He closed the door softly behind him. Again she heard it lock.

  “Victor,” she croaked into the silent darkness. “I hate you…”

  Hate was very like its opposite, though, all too apt to convert over, especially when one is chained up in a sex dungeon.

  The next visitor had no interest in touching Cameron letting alone making love.

  He let his stick do the talking, wood or leather whipping through the air, first to her left, then to her right. He was taunting her, toying with her inevitable fears.

  She tried to turn her body as best she could in an effort to keep the slashing sounds at bay but who was she kidding? She would endure exactly what this person wanted her to endure.

  Whoever it was didn’t make any sound, none at all. Cameron couldn’t smell anything either, beyond the rank odor of sex on her own body.

  Something sharp poked her breast. Not knife sharp, but hard and thin.

  “Who are you?” she asked stupidly.

  She began to thrash and dance—even more stupidly.

  Her tormentor was having a blast, running the stick over her ass, her hips and her nipples.

  “I just want to see Victor!” she cried.

  The stick whistled through the air. This time the business end landed on her ass.

  Cameron screamed an apology.

  Too late, the beating had begun. Steady blows, raining across her ass and upper thighs—oh, god it hurt there, right in the crease.

  He whipped her hips, too and then her belly.

  The screams meant nothing, or maybe they just turned him on more.

  She continued bobbing and jerking after it stopped. Several moments hopping on her toes, groaning, clenching and unclenching muscles as though she could somehow have the power, any power to control the torture.

  Was it over for good?

  She strained to hear something, anything.

  The stick appeared at the tip of her nose. Cameron held her breath. She had to be impressed the way he maneuvered the thing in the dark.

  Then it touched her lips.

  Cameron kissed it, licking, desperate, anything to please, to show her obedience, how much she got it and understood. She was the slave, he had every right to do this, he was superior, and yes, it even did things to her, much as she might not wish to admit it.

  He tapped the stick against her belly.

  “I’m yours,” she croaked, straining to spread her legs. “Fuck me…”

  The stick slid down her leg and back up along her inner thigh.

  Abruptly the stick tapped something hard.

  Oh, fuck, she had forgotten about the belt.

  “Wait…” she said.

  The stick was gone.

  The door opened and closed.

  A few moments later someone else came in. He had a tool, some kind of cutter. She gasped, holding her breath as the belt fell away.

  Now she had done it, she had really crossed the line.

  Would Craig ever take her back?

  The one she nicknamed the Cutter paused to kiss her, a deep sealing of his lips against hers. She sought forgetfulness, peace, pushing her breasts against him, letting him feel her desire.

  The Cutter used his tool, sliding the cold across her neck. She dared not breathe. Very slowly, delicately he cut away at her dress, severing the material from top to bottom. Cameron felt the air on her stomach, her exposed breasts.

  She whimpered as he rubbed the metal tool across her belly.

  Yes, yes…

  He laughed.

  And then he left her.

  Cameron hung limp, undone, used…and she hadn’t even been fucked in the process.

  Could she stand much more of this?

  How many more were coming?

  And what was the purpose? Was Victor teaching her a lesson?

  By the next time the door opened she didn’t have it in her to tense up.

  What was going to happen would happen.

  He could do what the hell he wanted.

  What he wanted was penetration, of the dirty, sordid kind. Making it clear he didn’t really want to touch her. She felt like something diseased, but irresistible, like a rubber, blow up doll. Was it the dried come, the welts, or was it just part of the strategy, to demean and degrade?

  His cock pushed up into her and made a groaning sound like he’d been shot. He didn’t even take the time to fuck her properly, just squirted into her, filling her cunt with a thick, sticky load.

  Just as quickly he pulled out of her and scurried away.

  This time the door was not locked.

  Her heart slammed with anticipation.

  Victor was coming, she could feel it.

  A moment later the light came on.

  She squinted, protecting her eyes. It was a merciless glare, cool and antiseptic. The fluorescent buzzed.

  “Are you pleased with yourself?”

  “Victor…”

  “Don’t ‘Victor’ me.” He was standing in front of her, looking as sexy as ever in a black silk shirt and black slacks. The top three buttons were undone, giving her a tantalizing view of his chest. A row of whips hung on the wall behind him. Just below that was a mattress, similar to the one she had seen with Chloe.

  They fuck you on it, Chloe had said, in order to humiliate you.

  “You’re mad at me,” Cameron whispered, feeling her world collapse around her.

  Victor laughed dryly. “You’re not important enough to be mad at, although you are becoming something of a nuisance.”

  “I’m not a nuisance,” she insisted. “I saw how you looked at me at the mansion that day.”

  “My, my,” he chortled. “What an imagination we have. You’re an attractive piece of ass, I’ll give you that, but I assure you it was nothing more than that.”

  “That isn’t true.” Her eyes watered. “Tell me it meant nothing when we were together, when you took me the way you did?”

  “And if I told you it did mean something,” he challenged. “That would please you? No, if it was devotion you wanted you would ha
ve stayed at home.”

  Cameron hung her head. “Why didn’t you let me go?”

  “I did, remember. You’re the one calling me like some kind of stalker.”

  “I hate you,” she spat.

  “I hate you, too, darling.” He approached, close enough to touch her cheek with the flat of his hand, the aroma of sandalwood filling her nostrils, the sheer presence overwhelming, sexualizing her all over. “Do give my regards to Craig.”

  “Don’t go,” she begged. “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Stay a moment, let me explain.”

  “Explain what? I think you’ve revealed quite enough already, don’t you?”

  “I did it for you…”

  “Now you’re deluding yourself,” he said. “You’re a self absorbed thrill seeking twit who hasn’t the first idea of self sacrifice.”

  “But you did return my call,” she grasped at straws. “You did call me here for something.”

  Victor shrugged. “Call it charity work. I’m trying to knock sense into you. You belong in your white bread world, children and a mortgage, a nice light spanking once a month with Leno on the tube.”

  “I’m not in love with Craig,” she exclaimed. “I care about him but that’s not enough.”

  “Not enough for you, you mean. Like I said, a self absorbed thrill seeking—“

  Cameron spit in his face. “And what are you, with your swaggering poses and your girls in cages, you’re afraid to love, you’re no master, you’re a fucking coward!”

  His smile chilled her to the bone. He was the rattler and she had just poked it with a stick. “I don’t provoke, Cameron, you’re wasting your time.”

  She watched, her heart slamming in her chest as he reached for her hair.

  Slowly, methodically, he used it to wipe the spittle off his face.

  When he was done he put her hair back tucking it behind her ear.

  Then he slapped her, forcing her head to the side.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  She did so, her lower lip trembling.

  He slapped her again.

  “Look at me,” he repeated.

  Cameron sobbed. “I’m sorry, Victor, I miss you so much…I’m nothing without you…I…I love you.”

  He undid the chain connecting her cuffs. The sudden gravity tugged at her with all the force of a landslide. He made no effort to help as she collapsed at his feet. His instructions were curt and cold, promising fearsome retribution for disobedience.