After everything is in place, Mr. Santana goes back to the circle of light and retrieves the crop. The bed dips as he comes closer. Slowly, he drags the crop over the skin of my neck, shoulder, back, buttocks, and thighs. “No more talking. No screams. Only noises that you can’t yet control.” The crop teases my cheeks. “Tears aren’t voluntary. They’re involuntary. Your tears are a gift.”
I swallow as the sensations around me grow stronger.
The scent of his cologne.
The way his weight moves the mattress.
The ghostly touch of the crop.
They all work together to build my anticipation, causing me to fidget upon the soft bedding.
“Spread your knees farther apart.”
Awkwardly I do, knowing that the evidence of my earlier arousal is still present. I gasp as the crop slides between my legs and between my folds.
His toned chest comes close to my back as he whispers in my ear. “You’re fucking amazing. The best gifts you can give me are tears and a warm, wet pussy.”
Two things that I can’t control.
I bite my lower lip, stopping myself from responding. With each second, he continues tracing my skin as my expectancy builds.
“Two words, Moira. You will give me two words that will decide what happens next. Remember that honesty is not negotiable.”
The crop slices through the air as it lands upon my ass. My entire body trembles as the biting sting radiates beyond the site he contacted. Like the crack of a window, the sensation webs through me. I fidget upon the cover and then it happens again and again in rapid succession.
Tears teeter on my lids yet I don’t want it to stop. I find myself anticipating the next strike, yet his rhythm isn’t predictable. All other thoughts leave my mind as I focus solely on the crop heating my flesh and taking my breath. I fight to stay still as my core tightens, needing more, wanting more. It’s erotic in a way I never imagined.
His lips are near my ear and his deep timbre rumbles over my freshly spanked skin. “Yes, Sir or no, Sir.”
I take a deep breath.
“I gave you one instruction before we parted ways. I told you not to touch this pretty pink pussy.”
I suck in a breath as the crop glides over my core.
“I told you what would happen if you did.” The crop continues to tease as I writhe against the stimulation. “I’m not going to ask you if you remember what I said because if you don’t, that would require a severer punishment. I’m going to ask you only one thing. Moira, did you obey?”
The thought of lying never enters my mind.
“No, Sir.”
Marji
A shriek fills the air following the whistle of the crop and slap. Though I know the sound escaped from the depths of my throat, echoing throughout room four, I don’t recall releasing it. It wasn’t my plan, yet I can’t recall why. Gasping for air, I grip the soft covers beneath me as my forehead falls to the same silky surface. Tears now coat my cheeks, gliding from beneath my light-blue mask, and yet through it all, those auxiliary sensations barely register.
Rapid-succession singular strikes on my sensitive core morph like a cloud mushrooming higher and higher into the sky until it’s one prolonged overwhelming consciousness of being. I struggle for breath, attempting to keep my future cries inaudible as the rest of the world, the room, everything except Mr. Santana’s actions vanish.
It isn’t a fog that slowly descends as I’ve heard it described.
The escape from reality is instantaneous as if a curtain has fallen.
The lights are out.
Everything else is gone.
Zapping electricity such as I could never imagine streaks through my body. Originating at my core, the impulses created by the strike of the crop to my tender skin flash, coursing with lightning speed in all directions until my flesh peppers with goose bumps, my skin glistens with the sheen of perspiration, and every hair on my body stands to attention. Like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm, I fight to maintain my position, to fulfill my purpose. The winds blow stronger, bending me, pushing me until my body collapses upon the bed.
No longer kneeling, as I’d been told, I’m floating in a turbulent sea of sensory stimulations. I hear my heart beating in my veins, my ragged breaths, and his deep baritone timbre rumbling through the mayhem.
Strong sure hands roam across my hypersensitive skin. They are no longer centered only at my core, but caressing me—all of me. Mr. Santana rolls me to my back as he continues to caress. The room is no longer echoing with my cries of pain. Instead, the noises dancing around us are comprised of moans and whimpers indicative of my wanton needs.
Are those sounds coming from me?
I can’t be certain of anything until dark eyes come into view, penetrating the obliteration his punishment brought and settling me like an anchor in the center of a storm. The gleaming brown orbs stare down at me as the musk of expensive cologne fills my senses and the firmest of bodies covers me. I try to hold on, to reach for his shoulders and yet my hands are still bound above my head.
Tender words begin to register as firm lips kiss my cheeks, neck, and shoulders. Lower and lower he moves, inch by inch. Such as an explorer in the wilderness, he investigates every peak and valley, kiss by kiss, until he stops just above my core.
The dark eyes are back. The warmth of his body is again over me.
“You amaze me, Moira. You’re so strong. I’m proud of you.”
His tone brings his praise to life, reverberating through me and lessening the sting left behind from his crop.
“Good girls deserve a reward.”
His large hand cradles my chin, drawing my gaze to his as his thumb wipes away a new tear that escaped my mask. I’m not aware that I’m crying or certain of why. I’ve never been this overwrought with a kaleidoscope of emotions. When my eyes flutter shut, I see the colors spinning, uncertain of what they mean.
His voice comes back, causing my lids to open.
“Or this can end...if it is too much.”
End?
Confusion cools my skin.
“Moira,” he says firmly, “this is how this works. You have the power to make this stop. Is that what you want?”
Exhaling, I thank the stars that his words are registering, yet my body is still too overstimulated to respond verbally. I move my head. It isn’t much, a little shake from side to side. All the while my mind is yelling, even begging, for this to continue, for my promised reward.
I don’t want this to stop.
Please don’t stop.
I’ve never been more focused on my needs in my entire life.
Mr. Santana’s cheeks rise. “You’re saying you want your reward?”
“Y-yes, Sir.” My ragged voice finds its way to my tongue as Mr. Santana lowers his face near mine, the slight bristle of his cheek connecting with my dampened one.
“You’re perfect.” His words rumble near my ear.
My eyes close as he moves down my body, lifting my legs, spreading my thighs. I feel the movement, yet my energy is gone. I’m a puppet for his pleasure—a rag doll—capable of only moving as he positions, pulling the strings. There’s warm breath at my tender core. I don’t have time to register.
“Oh!” My scream is even louder than before as his tongue breaches my folds, finding my tender punished core. Without warning, my entire body convulses, from without and within. I’ve never been blindsided by an orgasm before, and yet that’s what is happening.
My inside clenches as my wrists fight the restraints. I’m incapable of comprehension or cognitive thought. I’m raw and primal. I’m sensations and orgasms. Time means nothing as I writhe and wiggle.
Lap after lap, nip after nip. His teeth graze my swollen clit. His tongue delves deeper. Mr. Santana doesn’t slow his assault—or is this reward?—sucking and nipping as fireworks explode while simultaneously each nerve within me winds tighter.
“Please, Sir,” I beg as the pleasure continues to build to a pa
inful new pitch.
“Yes, Sir or no, Sir,” he says, “I need to be inside you, now.”
Pulling against the restraints, my body regains some control. “Please, Sir. Please, I’ve never wanted something or someone this much.”
I barely register as he sits back on his haunches, unlatches his belt, unbuttons his slacks, and lowers his silky boxers. Such as I’m watching a movie, he’s there with his glorious penis in view—hard and thick, the tip glistening with his need as it grows even larger.
Has delirium set in?
The scene seems too perfect to be real.
I can’t believe this ideal specimen of a man is with me, taking me and fulfilling my fantasies. With a condom in place, Mr. Santana leans forward and lavishes his newfound attention upon my breasts.
“Next time, I want to punish these tits...the stripe of a crop and clamps. They’d look stunning with clamps as your nipples harden...”
Next time... those words dominate his speech.
He said next time.
I try to listen and comprehend, but I can’t concentrate beyond the probe of his length against my tummy as I lift my knees higher, wanting—no, needing—him inside me.
One finger, then two, expose my entrance and sink deep inside me. I let out a sigh as they bend, teasing my nerves and bringing me higher.
“Moira, you honor me with your tears and your wet pussy.” He adds a third finger. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”
“Please...” My lip disappears beneath my teeth as he sinks into me. I try to suppress the shout as my neck strains and back arches.
“Give them to me, Moira. Let me hear your screams of pleasure.”
Pleasure.
Pain.
The boundaries have blurred.
My wrists pull against the restraints as my now-hoarse voice fills the room. Deeper and deeper he thrusts, stretching my punished core until we are fully connected.
Mr. Santana stills as his dark eyes stare down at me. “Talk to me, Moira.”
My head nods.
His finger moves over my lips. “Words. Let me hear your words. Tell me if you can handle this.” His head shakes. “I wasn’t planning...I couldn’t stop.”
I don’t know what I see in his gaze. My overstimulated mind doesn’t comprehend, yet I bow my neck upward until my lips meet with his. “Please, Sir, don’t stop. I didn’t know what to plan or expect. I still don’t. I want this.”
The domination he’s shown shifts with his movements. Like a sad melody, his rhythm decelerates and a new, slow burn sparks to life inside me. Flickering like a spark to a flame, this isn’t like the other orgasms he’s provided. It isn’t even like the pain he gave me. In some unattainable way, it is pain he’s sharing with me.
It’s sensual and poignant.
I feel it in my core and my soul.
Mr. Santana takes as he gives. I lose count of the times he brings me to ecstasy. And while none are as earth-shattering as the first, and my bruised core is exhausted beyond my wildest imagination, I don’t want it to end.
At some point, he releases my wrists. Multiple times he replaces the condom.
No longer face-to-face, he moves me in ways I’ve only heard about as he continues to take me or maybe use me. I don’t know which it is, and ashamedly, I don’t care. This is more of a connection than I’ve experienced with anyone in my entire life.
This experience is everything I imagined and more. A peaceful bliss settles over us until, just before I fall to sleep, I realize that I don’t even know his real name or he mine.
Lucas
I hold Moira in my arms longer than I should, watching her sleep, her long eyelashes fluttering as her swollen pink lips mumble incoherent approvals—yes, Sir...please—and morph into a smile before going slack, her warm, soft curves curled next to my bare chest.
This wasn’t my plan, not when I returned to Lace and Leather or ever. It’s too early to think about a future with this amazing woman in my grasp, and yet that’s what I’m doing. I’m not thinking about it. I’m doing anything to talk myself out of it.
I don’t know her.
This goes beyond her.
It’s me.
I don’t deserve happiness two times in my life.
There are too many people who never find it.
Why should I find it again?
Does she want a relationship or was she just looking to fulfill a fantasy?
Did I fulfill it?
I can’t be sure.
Somewhere along the way, I lost focus of my purpose to train her. I forgot that she was new. I forgot that I’d punished her or how she’d so beautifully taken each strike of the crop. All of that disappeared as my ears filled with her sounds of pleasure and her pussy strangled my dick as she came apart time after time.
It’s been too long since I’ve found real relief, the kind that can only come within a woman. It’s also been too long since I’ve experienced the pleasure and satisfaction that comes with sharing that, from focusing her on the present, removing the roadblocks of her mind, and centering her on her desires as well as my needs.
I hadn’t planned on us going that far, and yet I’m still here—nude, long after midnight with this lovely creature in my embrace.
I’ve never gone this far off script with a newbie.
Maybe that’s part of it—the newness.
I believed Moira when she said this way of life was new, yet she hadn’t come to Lace and Leather blind. She’d researched—read. Her naïveté is as enticing as her knowledge is reassuring. The combination is an aphrodisiac like none I’ve ever known.
I can’t compare her to Beth.
I won’t.
And still, as I stare up at the mirror over the bed and see this beauty with me, the one who trusts me, who gives herself willingly to me, I can only hope that my mother and Dr. Kizer are right, that Beth is happy.
If I could speak to her now, I’d want her to know that I will always love her. That will never change. I also hope she loves me enough to want me to live, whether with this woman or someone else.
Callie comes to my mind.
I have too much baggage to expect Moira to willingly be more than she is, than we are at this moment.
Taking a deep breath, I kiss her mussed hair and ease from the bed. Moira moans and with a slight shift, settles into the warm blankets. A few minutes later, I’m dressed and have a penned note in hand. Taking it to where I’ve laid her clothes, I lay it on top of them where she’s sure to see it.
My heart races as I walk back to the bed and see that her mask is a bit askew. I wrestle with the idea of removing it and seeing the full face of the woman who, if nothing else, has brought me back to life.
Isn’t that enough to ask of one person?
I have no right to ask more.
As I leave room four and quietly close the door, I straighten my shoulders and step down the silent corridor until I reach the grand staircase. It’s nearly two in the morning, but I won’t leave until I give strict orders for Moira to be kept alone, safe, and escorted to her car when she wakes.
I reach the first floor expecting to find Dorothy. Yet the entryway is oddly quiet.
Going to the large doors, I enter the bourbon bar.
In all the years, it has barely changed. Beneath the masks, I see a few familiar sets of eyes. It’s with a sense of pride I recognize a few of the submissives as ones I’d trained.
At this hour, the bar is less formal. The cigar and bourbon aroma is replaced by the musk of sexual desire. It is as thick as fog surrounding the single patrons, couples, and small gatherings.
While the Dominants are mostly clothed in their finest, the submissives are more often stripped to an outfit similar to the one I sent for Moira—corset or bustier, stockings with garters, and high heels—or completely bare. That may be an overstatement. Those submissives, the ones without clothes, are often wearing a collar attached to their master’s leash and a splash of other adornments, such as clamps lik
e the ones I mentioned to Moira or gags forcing their mouths open in a constant state of readiness for their master’s desires.
The genders occupying the different roles vary.
I think of Dorothy, wondering if she has or will give the dominant side of her a chance to explore. While she enjoys the bite of a bullwhip, I am confident she’d find equal pleasure in delivering the blows.
Near the back of the bar is a table of Doms playing what I know from experience is high-stakes poker. These players can place a ten-thousand-dollar bet while their subs kneel between their knees with their cocks in their mouths.
Currently, it appears that each player’s submissive is kneeling near his or her chair. Their heads are respectively bowed as they sit back on their bent toes with their backs straight. It’s a painful position to maintain for a prolonged period of time. However, if they do, they will be rightfully rewarded. If they don’t, they will be justly punished.
“Mr. Santana.”
I turn to the sound of Dorothy’s voice. “Perhaps you’d like to join the poker game. I believe a chair will be opening soon.”
We both watch as one of the submissives crawls toward her master, rubbing her forehead against his thigh. He reaches down to pet her hair, like an owner satisfying a cat. It’s then she takes his fingers, sucking them deep beyond her lips as she wiggles in her stance. It’s a violation of most Doms’ rules, and will most likely result in her desired outcome. Whether reward or punishment is in her future, soon the two of them will be disappearing to a more private room.
“I’m leaving,” I say. “First, I wanted to make it clear that Moira isn’t to be disturbed until she wakes. Once she does she’s been instructed to push the call button. At that time, she should be escorted to her car.” I scan the bar, seeing the Doms without submissives, the ones stirring their drinks as they watch the various couples. The hair at the nape of my neck stands to attention. “She’s to be in contact with no one but you.”
Dorothy nods. “Any message for her, Sir?”
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