Mastering Him

by Meghan Boehners

  Miss Sally had one hell of a point here, and Jennifer started to understand what the dominatrix was doing. Like forcing a teenager caught smoking to suck down an entire pack, negative operant conditioning was at work. Anything Declan did to her was better than the cringe-worthy words she read.

  And oh, how she cringed as she continued:

  “Dear Jennifer, Great to hear from you! One thing I forgot to mention – you’re a 44DDD? Wow! Now that’s a handful! Sounds interesting. I’ve never been with a woman with a chest that large. Brings all sorts of erotic images to mind. So that you know, I love all things oral. I consider my oral abilities to be far above average. I love to eat pussy (pardon the directness) and am content to do so for hours.”

  “No man has a tongue that can go for hours,” Declan muttered, his hot breath a new feeling she couldn’t easily synthesize, her mind too hot and bothered to process anything now. “He must be part robot. Or part idiot. I’ll go with idiot.”

  Smack. Declan’s teeth hit her folds as he was shoved into her pussy by the force of Miss Sally’s riding crop on his ass. Jennifer’s hands shook as she continued reading, Miss Sally pointing the crop at her and shaking the end.

  “Usually, though, women can’t take it for more than fifteen minutes. After that, she usually asks me to stop so she can feel me inside her. No problem there! I’ve even had a few women pass out on me – that is wild! Passing out from too many orgasms – I love that.”

  Miss Sally’s turn to snort; she pursed her lips and shook her head, sighing. Declan halted, then resumed, his tongue alert and gliding where he knew she wanted him most, playing her so expertly that she felt they were meant to be together – his tongue and her clit.

  “My dear, after reading your letter a couple of times, I have become really horny. I LOVE to masturbate. I know that I am not alone in this – just about everyone does – but not many people are comfortable enough with their sexuality to admit it. I’d love to tell you ALL about it if you’re interested. Just telling you about all the details would turn me on to no end. You too, I hope!”

  The words seemed so, incredibly, unabashedly ridiculous. She wasn’t horny or turned on by anything other than Declan, wanting his flesh, his heart, his attention and his body. Whatever had driven her to those sex chat places was long gone, and now the exercise Miss Sally forced on them seemed silly and trite. It wasn’t helping, and being tied up made her rationally pissed. No part of her wanted to be dominated. Nothing about this was exciting. Only the desire for Declan – the rest of this sucked donkey balls.

  And yet she half-heartedly continued, Declan now circling her puckered ass with a light, wet pinkie finger, making her gasp as she struggled to read, contravening her loss of lust, making the ping-pong of emotions unbearable.

  “Well, dear, I wasn’t kidding when I told you that you have gotten me horny,” she read, John’s words hollow on her lips. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You words, and my telling you what they have done to me, are making me harder and harder. I just can’t sit at this computer any more. Time to play! I hope that you’ll think about me – and what I will soon be doing – as soon as I send this letter to you. I hope that it excites you enough to want to touch yourself, too. Love, John.”

  Miss Sally smiled a wide, Wednesday Addams grin and glanced at Declan, who paused, as if he felt her gaze. Jennifer’s eyes scanned ahead. Oof. Did she really have to read the next part?

  “Yes, you absolutely must read the next email,” Miss Sally declared. Damn – could she read minds?

  Sighing, Jennifer gritted her teeth as Declan plunged his tongue into her once more:

  “Dear John, Think about my creamy breasts overflowing from a black teddy, my legs wrapped in silk, black stockings clinging to my thighs by garter straps made of leather. On my feet – open-toed velvet heels, my red toenails playing against the silk. I slip my foot out of the slipper and my foot caresses your bulging crotch. You run your hands over my smooth calves, reaching for the heat between my legs. I stretch my body, leaning toward you, and you bury your face between my breasts, tongue stroking the curves, reaching through the lace to my erect, flushed nipples,” she read.

  As the words came from her throat she felt a clarity, an understanding, that had eluded her for nearly a decade. She threw the papers to the floor, damn Miss Sally’s orders, because right now, what he was doing took her out of her own mind so swiftly she lost brain-to-muscle control.

  “Oh!” she whispered as he raised her hips. Then she understood that the pretense was over; no more playacting, no more BDSM crap, no more orders from Miss Sally no matter how much they were paying her. When his tongue settled on her red nub just right there, a soft touch like a promise, so intense she flooded with wetness on the tip of his tongue, she knew that she had to just give in to what her body was telling her.

  “Ahhhhhh,” she groaned, practiced arms reaching under her hips, taking possession of her ass. His sinewy arms provided leverage, so he gently lifted her rear end, one hand sliding out, gliding two fingers in her eager pussy and caressing just enough to send shockwaves through her, the touch lighter than usual as he sought out her g-spot, as if he had figured out what she had figured out a few days ago: the hooked finger was good, but stroking that slightly ragged patch of skin inside her passage, as if like a kitten lapping at milk, was far better.

  She bloomed with lust, the power center of nerves now all focused on her clit as he sucked it, slowly growing the release within as he flittered and played, a fresh touch she didn’t know. Her legs began to shake and she could feel his grin on her pussy, that smug look of accomplishment she knew all too well. Eh – he deserved it. Her hands found their way to his hair, seeking an anchor, sliding and guiding him to catch the right wave that --

  “Declan, more!” she hissed, pelvis grinding into his mouth and tongue, which now licked up and down, spreading the sensation out to all the nerve endings, making her crave even more. Then he lapped her, making his tongue as big as possible. The two sensations led to a screaming climax as her whole body became one big muscled ball, her vagina clamping down on his fingers, pushing his mouth into her clit as she rode him, his tongue dancing to meet her movements as she convulsed with passion.

  She screamed a series of syllables that made no sense, a language of its own created by Declan’s tongue, hands now clenching the sheets and ripping them off the bed, legs jumping as she shouted. Pushing her clit into his face, he diligently kept up, butterflying her nub, now licking and laving as her muscles unclenched, her sighs uncontrollable, little sounds of exertion.

  He grinned and slid his hands up her body, following the trail, the dissonance of his clothing bringing her back to reality. His kiss tasted like her, geared her up again, her clit and pussy clenching so hard she had a spontaneous orgasm simply from the kiss, hips grinding into his as he pinned her down, her musk filling her mouth, his lips, and she marveled at how he could elicit this from her, even now, even after reading those damn emails from another man.

  How could she lose this? The intimacy was so...easy now. Easy? She nearly laughed at how ludicrous that was, a word she would never have said just two days ago. Easy. Intimacy. Pleasure. None of those had been linked to Declan for more than a year. Yet now...

  And then her eyes met Miss Sally’s.

  A mixture of unease and excitement spun within him, his stomach in knots but his cock rock hard as he stared at his wife’s luscious, prone body. He really was a sub, deep down, and Miss Sally was right. He didn’t have a fucking clue what he was doing right now other than having made her come – spectacularly, he might add – with his magic tongue. Miss Sally nodded, indicating he needed to do as instructed. He really, really wasn’t sure this was right, but he trusted her. Dominating Jennifer felt wrong.

  At work, though, he was a natural Dom, knowing exactly how to take charge and make every process run better than before, convince clients to give them multimillion dollar contracts, and tease frustrated, but highly prod
uctive, employees into helping improve the bottom line and morale. As he had risen up the ranks from Account Executive to Director to Vice President and, now, CEO, Declan had been one of the youngest partners at his ad firm, living a life of enormous success and unfailing control, dominating everyone he needed to overtake and establishing an empire of alpha success.

  Yet here he stood, quivering, half helpless and frozen with indecision. Damn it. He imagined himself at work, and Jennifer a secretary he needed to convince...no. Didn’t work. OK, then, how about a new website owner who had an SEO campaign and web advertising budget of $159k from a venture capital firm and they...ah, no. None of those moments, where his alpha male self emerged, were working. Even envisioning himself as Don Draper (which was his go to moment for times he faltered) didn’t cut it.

  Ah, shit. His eye caught Jennifer’s naked hip, the curve of her ass exposed and tight as she struggled against the ankle restraints. “Can you let me out?” she begged, her body nude, thighs wet from his face and her juices. “I really don’t enjoy being tied up.” Was she serious? Who didn’t enjoy it? How could she not find some core of pleasure in her that liked being submissive, relaxing into having someone else in charge, having no choice but to go along with whatever they wished to do to her body? The fact that she fought this was so...odd. Unnatural, really.

  Now that got him more interested. She had taken him by storm just two days ago, surprising him with a wellspring of dominance he didn’t know she had in her. Now she was the helpless one, her creamy skin fresh and gorgeous, mussed hair flowing behind her, eyes no longer sleepy but wide and, he saw, reflecting a level of anger he wasn’t sure they could overcome.

  John. John popped into his head again and his confusion waned as he reached for that perfectly-formed hip and caressed it, her body twisting in surprise. He splayed his palm to cup as much flesh as possible, then took his other hand to claim her breast, the form moving as his grip roughened, her back arching slightly against his touch. She closed her eyes and craned her neck, seeming to fight against whatever he evoked.

  Aha.

  So she liked it rough. He thought so, but when he dug the first two fingernails into her hip, the nails sinking into her curves while tweaking one nipple, the gasp wasn’t from surprise. Then the moan from deep in the back of her throat. Miss Sally grinned and reached for her notebook, jotting down some sort of observation that he assumed she would use at a later date. All of his sessions with her had involved that notebook, a curiosity he had frowned upon but, like so much of her, wasn’t up for negotiation. She acted like a professor conducting an experiment and sometimes, he thought nervously, that is exactly who she might be. He knew so little about her and she knew far too much about him.

  Jennifer stopped moving under his grip, her body relaxing purposefully as she seemed to adjust to his touch and now fought against responding. Huh. Well, two could play at that game. He’d been as stoic as possible as she read those fucking emails from the intruder, the jerk who found a way into his wife’s head, into her pussy, even if it was virtual. He’d stayed as neutral as possible, fighting the demon in him that wanted to reach into the computer and rip the motherfucker’s throat out and eat it raw.

  Miss Sally read his mind and handed her riding crop to him. Without warning he whipped it up in the air, the crop’s movement making a snick sound as it went up, then smacked down, hard, on Jennifer’s breast.

  She shouted, then pursed her lips in anger. Snick snick snick. Three more times he hit her, each accompanied by more guilt and a tinge of something else. Revulsion? Incredulity? Whatever he felt, it wasn’t pleasure, and he knew that Doms were supposed to enjoy this, were supposed to make the sub feel special, in control, and that the process should be a mutually fulfilling one.

  The two angry eyes that bored into him from the bed weren’t exactly mooning over him, nor did they carry the dark intensity of desire.

  She was barely tolerating this charade, he knew, and if they didn’t have a breakthrough soon, they would go past the point of no return. Like contract negotiations at work: there was a fine line between being an asshole and getting the contract signed. Right now, though, he was losing.

  Sewer pipe. The words pinged in her head, racing through, almost on her lips. She wasn’t enjoying this. She tightened and dried up, like turning into a sexual prune, the pain tolerable but, most certainly, not arousing. Did Declan really pay so much money for this? Was his need for pain that intertwined with his sexual demands? She could understand the will to dominate – that seemed so heady, so intense, and thrilling to a wet core of suffering unleashed to evolve into pleasure.

  Being beaten, though – being the submissive – was so antithetical to her own internal state that a thin strand of nausea developed within her, growing by the blow.

  Miss Sally seemed to see it as she studied Jennifer attentively, those hawklike eyes missing nothing. Declan didn’t seem to enjoy this, either, his face a roiling mess of excitement, fear, discomfort and confusion. Why were they doing this? What purpose did his beating her, or being forced to read trashy emails she no longer needed, serve in keeping their marriage together?

  None. Absolutely none.

  Just as the words “sewer pipe” formed in her throat, Miss Sally announced, “You’re done. Stop now, Declan.” He obeyed immediately as they both gave Miss Sally undivided attention. “This isn’t effective,” she added, pointing to Jennifer’s restraints.

  Thank God, she thought as Declan untied her. “Uh,” he stammered, looking to Miss Sally for direction. Jennifer cringed inside; who was this man?

  “Coffee,” Jennifer declared, rubbing her wrists and standing to walk to the shower. “When I get out of the shower I expect a nice, hot latte waiting for me,” she ordered. Declan froze, eyes bouncing between the dom and his wife.

  Miss Sally nodded, stone faced. “Yes. We’ll see you downstairs.” Then she wrote something in her notebook, closed it with a snap and walked like a runway model, one high-heeled foot perfectly centered in front of the other, out the bedroom door and down the stairs.

  Like a baptism, the hot shower drove the sin of the morning away. Not that it was divine sin; more a transgression of the core of their marriage, the center of everything good and holy in her life. Or what she thought was her life. Out of habit, she reached for the detachable showerhead. Chuckling, she stopped her hand, shaking her head slowly in amazement at the massive tidal shift her sex life had taken in just two days. She’d had more orgasms in these last 48 hours than she’d had – even at her own hand, or by water or electronic assistance – in the past couple of months.

  And all of them had been quite better than anything that required plastic, running water, or AA and D batteries.

  Some part of her suspected that there were more orgasms in her future today. Hopefully better than the one she’d just had at the end of Declan’s tongue, the entire episode so weirdly disconcerting that even now she didn’t know whether to enjoy it or be disturbed. Maybe Miss Sally’s ending of the charade meant that things were taking a better perspective? She knew the dom was only here for another hour or so. Shower gel that smelled of mangoes and lavender made her gag for some reason; what she needed most right now was a set of comfortable sweats and about ten cups of coffee.

  Rinsed clean and mercifully free of the shower gel’s odors, Jennifer found herself faced with drawers full of clothes she hated. Nothing specific – just a bunch of boring outfits that represented a woman who was trying to hide. If she had to pick one word for her entire wardrobe, it would be “camouflage.” Disappearing into the woodwork wasn’t just a proclivity; it had become a way of life in trying to keep Declan from exploding on her.

  Yeah, like that was going to happen going forward.

  A purple velour suit with a low-cut top was the least offensive to her now. The soft, plush material felt good against her newly-scrubbed skin. She didn’t bother drying her hair; it hung in light, wet waves around her face, stretched down to kiss the nap
e of her neck.

  Where she craved a kiss from Declan.

  The scene in the kitchen surprised her with its domesticity, Declan serving a lovely latte with perfect crema to Miss Sally, who was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, sipping the drink, wrinkling her nose as she inhaled a bit of foam. Declan had sprinkled the coffee with what looked like cinnamon and Jennifer’s mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since – when? Ah, well. A cup of coffee with milk would have to do for now.

  Once settled, the three looked at each other expectantly. Declan fretted over the two women, handing both napkins and holding out the cinnamon shaker with a look of expectation on his face as he slid Jennifer’s latte across the table.

  “Yes, please,” she said, wanting desperately to add, what a lovely latte, Martha but keeping her mouth shut.

  He sat down and they all sipped their coffee slowly, until Declan’s tapping foot seemed like a bass drum. Finally, achingly, Miss Sally cleared her throat and said:

  “I am done with you two. You are probably the most hopelessly inept couple I have ever worked with. And that,” she added, taking a long sip, “is saying a great deal. I have worked with couples who haven’t had sex in five years. Where one is undergoing gender re-assignment surgery. A few that make Dan Savage’s column look like a preschool poem. And yet you two really stump me.”

  She took the last of her coffee in one big gulp and slammed the cup on its saucer, like chugging a beer. “What the hell is wrong with you two? I knew, the moment Declan came to me, I would find myself in this situation. It’s textbook.” She sighed, her left cheek twitching, as if stressed. Jennifer gawked openly, more fascinated by Miss Sally’s opening up than offended by the content of her diatribe.

  “You are a powerful, strong, intelligent CEO,” she barked, pointing at Declan. His sheepish grin faded when she told him, “and you wasted years with her.” The long, red fingernail shifted to Jennifer.