Mastering Him

by Meghan Boehners

  “OH MY GOD!” and fluid poured out, a slopping, slurping sound filling his ears as if he were underwater, his glutes aching as he squatted, Jennifer throwing her body in every direction as the Sybian pounded into her, shoving at her cervix, poking her G-spot and his tongue the finishing touch for her. She clawed at his hair, his shoulders, his back, the finally scratching her own skin, taking up great handfuls of naked breast, squeezing to release the muscular build-up of tension and need, her fucking and bucking almost enough to make him cum, too.

  Almost. One quick glance at Miss Sally from the cave of Jennifer's clit and labia was enough to cool him. A slow, evil smile from the Dom made him look away.

  Oh, dear.

  “Declan, stop!” Jennifer begged, twitching and roaring, but he couldn't, he had to keep licking, for he was under Miss Sally's spell, under her command, and if he stopped he, too, might get the cane.

  The cane that Jennifer couldn't know was coming.

  “You may stop, Declan,” Miss Sally ordered. He stood back abruptly, watching Jennifer's limp body struggle against the still-vibrating device, her skin red in splotches, her face torn between complete bliss and confusion.

  Smack. Miss Sally's crop his Jennifer's breast hard. “You shouldn't have done that, Worm,” she said to Jennifer, who didn't respond at first. Then, she looked straight at Declan, her lips a round “O” of shock, and touched the welt.

  “What are you doing?”

  Smack. A second welt on her other breast. “You defied my orders,” the dominatrix replied. Then rap rap rap, Miss Sally began beating Jennifer. She pulled out a cane and switched off, Jennifer screaming and struggling, still filled by the enormous dildo, the machine vibrating her past ecstasy and into torture.

  “No! Stop!” Jennifer screamed. Declan couldn't bear to watch, knowing Jennifer hadn't chosen this, knowing she was going to be permanently hurt by it all, wishing he had never brought her into this world, thinking he needed to use his own safe word to rescue her. The word stood on his lips, pressing from the inside of his mouth as his own hand grazed his cock.

  And then he knew what he could do to save Jennifer without stopping everything. A diversion. Licking his hand, he lubed it up and began stroking himself, watching the skin on Jennifer's tit rise as the welt took form, a reminder of her disobedience, three strokes of his foreskin and then –

  He came all over Miss Sally's raised arm, the semen shooting seven feet, pouring out over both of his Doms, his restraint so perfected he made not a sound, but Miss Sally's reaction perfect, for she stopped beating Jennifer and stood there, arm frozen in mid strike, her eyebrows simultaneously raised and furrowed.

  A bloom of triumph opened in his chest.

  Except that Jennifer looked furious.

  Oh, fuck.

  Son of a fucking bitch, what was that man doing? She felt red, her face red, her clit red, her skin red now from Miss Sally's smacks, and it was all one world, one being, the most integrated she had ever been, all one big flesh and nerve center nirvana. The appeal of being submissive finally made sense to her; she understood, just a tniy bit, what Declan had enjoyed about working with Miss Sally.

  Her body was on fire, combusted, one big supernova of flesh. And dammit, he'd stopped all that by breaking the rules and making himself orgasm. She knew him well enough to know that once again, he was exerting control. He had “saved” her from the beating, and while she got it – really, she did, and it was nice and chivalrous – she had long passed the point where she found that romantic or appealing.

  More to the point, she was pissed that he had just short-circuited the most phenomenal sexual experience of her life.

  And he was going to pay.

  The riding crop was sitting on the coffee table, the same table where Miss Sally now sat, glaring at Declan as if her eyes could summon a beam of light that would make his molecules stop moving. His jizz covered her skirt in thin arcs, the look almost fashionable, almost some sort of design house sample from some Italian couture line. Almost. It would have been funny if it hadn't interrupted what Jennifer had so desperately needed, the completion she felt as the crop and cane shot pain through her, the central line of fulfillment.

  Jennifer snatched up the crop and charged Declan, the thin square of leather striking his ribs with a satisfying thwack. “You disobeyed! You weren't supposed to come!” His face told her everything; he seemed insulted and hurt, self-righteous and angry, as if she just didn't understand that he was trying to be her white knight.

  “No, I...” he tried.

  She screamed, “Call me Mistress!”

  “Mistress, I am so sorry!” Some part of him receded into a role he played well, she noticed, in Miss Sally's presence. This was a more closed off Declan, not the angry asshole she'd grown accustomed to in recent years, but a calibrated, smooth operator who could turn himself into a stone when it came to submission. It wasn't as appealing as she'd thought it would be, for his submission seemed malicious. He did her bidding not because he wanted to, but because she made him.

  Miss Sally seemed able to get him to submit out of desire. How could his own wife tap into that? She wondered. Maybe it really was too late. Perhaps they had both gone on too long living parallel lives. A pang of guilt hit her, hard. She wasn't blameless; sex chats and emails had taken up her time over the past two years, right after Declan pulled away, so cold and unfeeling.

  But none of that mattered right now, right here, and she flung the crop against his shoulder in anger again. Feel, damn you, feel! she thought. Show me something! She beat him, feeling the handle bend, nearly break in two as she remained passive, barely flinching even when her next blow drew a small amount of blood.

  In fact, that seemed to make his eyes changes, soften a bit, as if she were reaching him. As if he enjoyed the pain, the bloodshed, this role playing, and – oh, Miss Sally! Jennifer had forgotten she was even here.

  The dominatrix stared at the scene, eyes narrowed, lightly dabbing at the semen that covered her skirt, observing everything. She held out the cane, extending it like a baton passed between runners in a meet, and said, “He prefers this.”

  Jennifer took it, speechless. She couldn't believe that in twenty-four hours she had gone from hopeless to hopeful to beating her own husband after fucking a machine in front of his professional Dom. None of this made sense. Here she was, abusing her husband, and his Dom gave her a better tool for it?

  His face was impassive, too, though his cock had sprung to attention. That surprised her; ready again? A look at Miss Sally triggered the Dom to say, “Now you're in charge, Jennifer. You tell him what to do next.”

  “I am done.” Jennifer set the cane down and slumped on the couch, boneless. “I don't want to be in charge any more.” The words 'sewer pipe' flitted through her mind, yet she couldn't bring herself to say them. In one sense she really was done, exhausted and spent and ready to end everything, knowing her marriage was over.

  On the other hand, the spark she saw in Declan's eyes – was she imagining it? If he wanted to end this, then he had to use his safeword. She wondered what it was. Yet another piece of information about her own husband that Miss Sally knew, but Jen didn't.

  The Sybian's cock was still coated in her juices and Astroglide. “Get on,” she ordered him. This time, she wasn't surprised when he complied. Now the entire scene felt like a pure performance, every moment just the present. Then the present. Then the present, all now and touch and senses.

  His ass hovered over the dildo as he squatted on the ottoman, those taut legs dusted with hair, his abs straining as he lowered himself, a quarter inch at a time, onto the plastic cock. His asshole expanded then contracted sharply, making him wince, and she watched with a sense of detachment, of curiosity, of arousal without fear or judgment or worry.

  Of transcendence.

  A quick flip of the vibrator switch and Declan's face changed, his ass muscles working hard to keep up with the motion, riding the Sybian very slowly. Miss Sally sa
id nothing, just watching and taking in the scene, hands planted firmly on her hips, a tight half-smile across her mouth.

  “No coming!” Jennifer ordered, not worried about compliance, for he'd just jizzed all over Miss Sally. No man over nineteen had a refractory period that was that fast.

  “Jennifer, may I make a suggestion?” Miss Sally had pulled out a compact and was lightly patting matte powder on her skin, inspecting her face in the little mirror.

  “Uh, sure.” Why the role reversal?

  “Make him touch himself but not come.”

  Declan groaned and Jennifer instinctively smacked him with the crop. Miss Sally smiled approvingly. “He broke my rules and ruined an experience for you. Make it hard for him. Make him test his own internal boundaries until he learns just how badly he has to want something – indeed, someone – and how to get it.”

  Jennifer smirked and nodded at him. “You heard that. Now do it.” Mesmerized, she watched as he pleasured himself under duress, forced to comply – but not really. She amended her thought, for he was doing this 100 percent of his own free will, wasn't he? He had a safeword. He was a submissive because he chose to be one, just as she, Jennifer, had done so under Miss Sally's orders.

  It really was freeing, exhilarating in a way she'd have never imagined, the physical sensuality certainly incredible but the mental paradigm shift even moreso. She felt completely free for the first time in her entire life.

  As she studied Declan's closed eyes, his contorted face, his sheer passion and attempts to control himself as the Sybian hummed and he thrust it into his ass, digging deeper and obviously hitting a spot that made his dick bulge nearly out of its skin, she saw the appeal. She really did.

  And then he screamed, grabbing the Sybian's base and cramming it so deep she thought the end of the dibdo would pop out one of his eyeballs and come through the socket, his knees up and ass filled and sweat pouring down his chest and abs, chin tipped up, cum squirting in small dribbles, holding his breath and turning a pale shade of pinkish blue.

  “Aaaaah, Jennifer!” he screamed, until Miss Sally suddenly lifted one leg and planted the end of her Blahnik on his chest, kicking him off the ottoman, the thick dildo wedged in and coming out of his rectum with an audible puck sound, Declan lying between the device and the couch in the fetal position, now moaning and rocking.

  “We told you not to come,” she chided. Jenifer admired her brutality, her complete hedonism in the face of Declan's obvious pain.

  Declan did, too, for he stopped moaning and just smiled, eyes closed, the expression so angelic and innocent. Looking around the room, Jennifer felt grounded enough for the first time in – she looked at the clock – three hours and forty-five minutes – to have a wise mind perspective. She was naked. Declan was naked, save for the dog collar. Miss Sally had a cum-stained skirt. The Sybian was slick with some brown froth, Santorum that they could deal with later. The professional Dom looked bored, her husband was in the prone position on the floor, and she had just been fucked three ways to Sunday.

  With thirty minutes remaining on Miss Sally's clock.

  “I am done,” Jennifer sighed, turning away from them both.

  “We have thirty minutes remaining on the contract, Jennifer,” the dominatrix said icily, as if about to give an unyielding order.

  “Sewer pipe!” were the next words out of Jennifer's mouth as she walked through the family room's twin doors and into the bright, open foyer, the walk upstairs to her bedroom feeling like a thousand miles, like being liberated from something she didn't know was a prison.

  Miss Sally fished her phone out of her pocket, sent a text, and ten seconds later two burly men walked through the very doors his wife had just walked out of moments ago. No longer caring that he was naked (much less concerned about the dog collar), he only wanted a few more minutes with Miss Sally.

  “Excuse me, Mistress?” That made the Dom smile. She raised her eyebrows and nodded that he could continue. One of the movers handed her a dry cleaning bag with a suit in it. Unabashed, she took the plastic covering off and slipped out of her current suit and into the new one, one that lacked Declan's DNA.

  “Could you come back tomorrow morning, please?” he asked.

  “You want to contract with me?” she said, buttoning her jacket, the suit identical to the one she'd just worn He wondered if her closet were an endless series of clones for the clothing. At the club she wore this same suit each time he saw her. Money wasn't the reason. He wondered what was?

  “I, er,” he struggled to stay on track. “I want you to teach me to be a Dom,” he whispered.

  She laughed. “Oh, Honey, you are a natural, 100 percent purebred sub.” Snickering, she gathered her satchel and started for the door.

  “She's been cheating on me,” he explained. That made the Dom halt, her otherwise impassive face showing a flicker of feeling. “I found her emails. They stretch back to right after I started seeing you.” Miss Sally's shoulders slumped; he felt a rush of hope. Then she turned around, shaking her head.

  “You two,” she sighed. “What makes you think that re-establishing dominance will make her stay, Declan?” The words hurt him, for he knew they were true. Getting Jen to try to repair their very, very broken marriage wouldn't be easy.

  “She liked it, Mistress. Loved it when you beat her. I think there's a sub in there and I want to explore that.”

  “Miss Sally cleared her throat and said, “If she's a sub, then you're doomed. You know two true subs can't be happy together.” Blinking, she added softly, with a compassionate tone, “That might be precisely why you haven't been getting along these last few years.”

  He hadn't considered that. “Maybe, though, we could find a way to switch? I think she might be more of a Dom, but one who hasn't experienced good sub time – ever. This was a lot for her to take in. Our sex life – her sex life – has always been very vanilla.”

  “If she's cheating on you, that might not be true.”

  Ugh. Her words knocked a bit of the wind out of him. “Fair enough,” he choked out. “But I have to at least try this. Please?” he pleaded.

  Grabbing her phone again, she made her way through the touch screen to what looked like a calendar app. “Tomorrow morning? I have two hours. Eight to ten.”

  “Awesome!” he hissed, pumping a clenched fist in the air. She rolled her eyes and looked at her watch.

  “We'll have to do the paperwork right before we start tomorrow. I have,” she watched the guys remove the Sybian, “a pressing appointment right now.”

  The clock showed one minute remained before the hour. Jennifer had made it nearly four hours, a record in his mind. He normally lasted two.

  “I'll see myself out,” the Dom announced. He watched her walk out the front door, ass finer than Pippa Middleton's, like an upside-down heart made of flesh and bone. God, she was so hot.

  Someone hotter awaited him upstairs, though. He climbed the flight of stairs two at a time, bounding into the bedroom to find Jennifer snoring lightly. He pulled the down comforter over her body and smiled.

  There was time. Lots of unexpected time for more.

  Dark. The room was dark, with just a faint light pouring in under the door frame. Sitting up, she found herself still naked, body sticky and sore. The clock read 2:41 a.m. Damn – had she really slept most of the day and night away?

  And where was Declan?

  The memory of the past day and a half flooded her. She'd hog tied him. Turned him into a slave. Made him fuck a dildo. Hired his Dom. Who made her fuck a Sybian. Been beaten. Made Declan fuck the Syian. Beat Declan. And she'd ended it all with her safeword, thank God.

  If she never, ever saw Miss Sally again, she would be a very happy woman.

  A shower would help. She flipped on the light, stood, padded into the bathroom and turned on the sprays. Never before had she appreciated the four-head shower Declan insisted they install when they remodeled a few years ago, after he'd been made Senior Vice President. Bu
t now, as she stepped into the water and felt her muscles liquify, her knots relax, she found herself giving in to the calm, the gentle push of water against her skin, the renewing feeling of soap and cleanliness, like a baptism that took her back to where she was two days ago.

  Like that could happen. As she soaped her belly she imagined Declan, not so much remembering him on the Sybian (though it flashed through her thoughts more than once), but remembering him before, when they made love so intimately. What had just transpired was sensual and explosive and hot as fuck, but right now she craved intimacy. Sharing. Connection.

  Instead, though, she felt like the batteries on their marriage were misfiring, a cell dead.

  And no jumper cables.

  Steam filled the bathroom as she cranked up the water temperature. Closing her eyes, she rinsed her hair, waves of hot water taking the residue of the day away. A funny sound filled the stall and then – hands on her ribs. Hands on her hips, the familiar feel of Declan's muscled, nude body behind her, the slick of wet leg hair against her ass, his hardness in her cleft, his stubbled chin on her shoulder, his splayed palms filling with her skin, rubbing and touching and loving.

  “Hi, “ he whispered, nuzzling her.

  “Hi,” she said back, too comfortable to argue. This – this was what she needed. The hypersexual husband in the scene with Miss Sally had been a gorgeous, explorative, astounding man she hadn't known was there under the surface of the raging jerk Declan had become in recent years. Finding him again, under very different circumstances – and now, having him cradle her so tenderly under the hot shower jets – felt like a tentative beginning.

  A sharp scraping feeling caught her offguard and made her flinch. “Ah,” he said, pulling back, his dark hair slick, sticking to his face, making his eyes gleam with a look that made him seem more vulnerable, closer to twenty than thirty. “Sorry.” He pointed to the dog collar, still attached to his neck.