My One

by January Rowe

  The robber’s lust, his harsh touch, wildly aroused me. I was Emerald, a pleasure slave, trained for explosive passion. My Master had been away too long. He’d neglected me for months. My mind still wanted Master, who loved me, but my body wanted the man who loomed above me, still pinning me to the chair. I could see how powerful and hot he was. Blood thundered into my pelvis, my vision went red. He sank into me and I screamed. I’m not sure if it was a cry of fear—or of triumph.

  He pushed deeper, filling me. He was too big. The robber would split me open if he moved. Terror caught me by the throat. I could barely breathe. Still my hips ground against his instinctively; my motion was awkward and painful and arousing. Slave Emerald was fully alive, frantic to please. I would give him everything I had.

  “Easy, subbie.”

  My gaze collided with the rapist. My perception shifted. The robber merged into Chris, the doctor-DM. I was Briony.

  “It’s you,” I whispered.

  He eased his fierce grip on my thighs. With a long, happy sigh, I curved my legs around his hips and squeezed, holding him tight against me. I felt honey-sweet contentment. He belonged inside me. He fit me just right. I began to gently rock against him. He met my motion.

  I gasped with pleasure when the sweetness turned furious.

  He surged deep, driving into me. I responded in kind, wild and violent, my hips grinding. I trembled. I cried. My clit burned, my pelvis was red hot. I was going up in flames. An orgasm tore through me. Then another. I screamed. He continued thrusting without mercy. Crazed convulsions ripped through my body. I barely sensed his twitching release.

  When the chaos passed, he drew me down to the carpet. I lay on top of him, chest to chest.

  He caressed my back. “I think I found the valuables.”

  Bracing my hands on the bulges of his shoulders, I stared down at him.

  “I never thought I’d enjoy a take-down, play-rape scene like that.” My body felt light, floaty; my mind was equally tranquil. All the fear, all the pained lust, all the extreme emotion he’d squeezed out of me, was worth the satisfaction I now felt. It was the best role play I’d ever experienced.

  “Can I get you an ice pack for your cheek?”

  “I don’t need ice, Sir. I have all the aftercare I need right here.”

  I snuggled back against Chris’s massive, welcoming chest. He was not a bit like I’d expected him to be. But I was still meant to be in his embrace. I was meant to serve him.

  Chapter Seven

  Chris invited me to come sailing with him the next weekend. I’d never been sailing before, but it sounded fabulous. He told me to pack beach towels and sunscreen, and he’d take care of everything else.

  I had visions of lying on the deck of a big boat, getting a wonderful tan. The sea would sluice by, and I’d watch him shimmying up the lanyard pole or whatever it’s called. He’d be stripped to the waist and I’d admire the cut of his shoulders, his powerful back. Getting thick with desire, I’d beg him to play with me. We’d dock on some island, and he’d tie me up to a palm tree and victimize me with joy.

  He came to pick me up at my apartment, looking military wearing khaki shorts and a navy polo. I could see the strength of his calves, the muscles around his knees. Yummy. I looked pretty good, too. I wore a teeny-tiny green string bikini and sexy wedge sandals. My hair hung about my shoulders.

  “You’re wearing that?” He looked me up and down, frowning.

  I was looking for a compliment. “Uh, yes, Sir.”

  “No. You’re not. Go change. Put on some shorts, a tee shirt and some running shoes. And bring a hat. I’ll wait.”

  I headed off to my bedroom to take off my cute bikini and put on a tee and shorts instead. I also put on some sneakers. Once we got onto his boat, I planned to get naked.

  His sailboat was called Off Call. As opposed to “On Call”, I supposed. It was a pretty ship, all clean and sparkly. I walked around his boat, praising this thing and that. He told me he was delighted to have me aboard. I imagined I’d soon be stripping, and we’d be heading off to that island.

  The reality turned out to be a lot different. I got my first clue when he handed me a pair of leather gloves. They were brown work gloves, not fetish kidskin gloves.

  “Put these on,” he said. “And tie your hair back. You’re going to help me sail, subbie.”

  “Me?”

  “Yup.” Amusement quirked his lips.

  He told me how a sailboat worked, outlining the physics of sailing, pointing out the various parts and purposes of the ship. The physics I understood, but the nomenclature just about killed me. There must have been a million pieces to that boat. Clamps and ropes and pulleys and sails.

  And the names were crazy. One of the ropes was actually called a sheet. Wouldn’t you call a sail a sheet? About the only part of the sailboat I thought made any logical sense was the thing called a “boom”. The boom is a hard bar with a sail attached that whips across the center of the ship when the sail is moved to take advantage of the winds. The boom is aptly named. When we finally got underway, I nearly got boomed in the head by the boom. A bunch of times.

  I’m getting ahead of myself. We weren’t yet underway. We were still docked, and Chris was patiently demonstrating how to operate his boat.

  “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir,” I’d say, even though I was basically lost and anxious I wouldn’t be a very good sailor.

  Finally he stopped his lessons, gazed down at me with his concerned, earthy eyes. “You’ll get the hang of it, I promise. And you can stop calling me Sir. I’m not wild about protocol.”

  I blinked up at him. No protocol? My fantasy DM had been super strict. Oh, well. Time to enjoy the real man and his endless surprises.

  Soon we were off.

  Sailing was hard work. I needed the gloves to protect my hands. I would’ve fallen overboard had I worn my wedged sandals. As Chris promised, I got the hang of the sport. There was a satisfying rhythm to his commands, the way we moved over the water. We skimmed the ocean, barely touching the waves, defying gravity, like a horizontal rocket.

  Chris had a rapturous smile on his face. “Feel that?”

  I smiled back at him, happy he was happy. The earnest way he wanted to share his joy in sailing touched me. I understood his delight; I got a similar weightless sensation when I skied.

  Once Chris was satisfied with our position in the open sea, he dropped anchor. I was tired, hungry and thirsty. And feeling mighty proud of myself.

  I took off my gloves, laid towels out on the deck, and caught my breath. He drew a cooler up from the cabin. We sat on the towels and ate lunch. He’d made us tasty roast beef sandwiches and a dessert of sliced apples. I wolfed down the food and gulped down bottled water. Lying back on the towel, no longer thirsty or hungry, I savored the sounds and smell of the sea. The boat gently bobbed up and down.

  “You have good sailing instincts, Briony.”

  His praise made me almost giddy. “I like it.” I sat up and gazed at the multitude of ropes coiled on the deck. I smirked. “Are we going to an island?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it. I brought some fishing gear, though. Do you want to fish?”

  “No.” What I wanted was intimate recreation.

  I stood up and walked over to the sailboat’s central pole. I patted it suggestively. Who needed a palm tree when there a pole? Of course there was a bunched-up sail at the bottom of the thing, but I was sure we could figure something out.

  Tossing off my hat, I slipped off the scarf holding my hair, letting my hair fly loose in the breeze. Then I took off my shoes, tee shirt and shorts. I was bare-assed naked, and loving the way his eyes devoured my body. My back to the pole, I raised my arms backwards to grab onto it. I hoped I looked as naughty as I felt.

  “Don’t ships need a beautiful naked woman to decorate them?” I asked.

  “Are you volunteering to be my figurehead?”

  Planting my feet, I arched my bare chest toward him. “You have enough ropes, sa
ilor man.”

  He chuckled. “You’d get burned to a crisp in this sun, my little bondage doll. Come lie down next to me and I’ll slather sunscreen on you first.”

  I was a little disappointed he was being doctor and not sailor man. But of course I obeyed him. I lay down on the towel on my stomach, resting my head on crossed arms. He dribbled the sunscreen onto my legs. A smell of coconut wafted up. How long was this going to take? I squirmed, impatient.

  “Lie still, Briony.” His strong hands massaged the sunscreen into my calves. He began to rub the lotion onto the ticklish soles of my feet.

  Who needed sunscreen there? I jerked my feet away.

  I felt a sharp swat on my naked ass. “I told you to lie still.”

  “Ow,” I complained.

  The spank aroused more than hurt. But I wouldn’t dare push him too far. Chris might have dispensed with protocol, but he expected my obedience. I stretched out my nude body and submitted to his ministrations. He rubbed my feet all over with the sunscreen, giving my toes special attention. It took all of my willpower not to jerk away again. I did groan once, though, which he graciously ignored.

  Finally, he finished with my feet. He dripped sunscreen on my shoulders and my back. It felt wonderful. He knew just how and where to knead, exactly how to make me feel secure. I was soon transported, sensing only his magic hands on my body and the ship gently pitching up and down over the waves. I felt the profound serenity of the River—and I had reached it without pain, without sex, without bondage.

  He continued to smooth the sunscreen over my skin in slow, strong circles. He massaged my lower back, my ass. I sighed, absorbing his sweet pressure. His slick fingers slipped into the division between my buttocks, following it to my tender folds. My heart spiked.

  He rolled me onto my back. Primal heat surged through me. He looked down at my face, his hazel eyes blazing. My breathing turned shallow. He had to know how much I wanted him.

  Now he’d fuck me good.

  A soft and loving curve touched his lips. And then he dribbled sunscreen on my breasts. I whimpered. Not more sunscreen.

  He stroked my breasts with his skilled fingers.

  Chris had once accused me of being materialistic, greedy for toys and equipment. He had told me I’d learn to submit to him by the force of his body alone. He was still teaching me that lesson. I arched into his big hands, offering more. He took more. He played with my furled nipples, watching them harden and sensitize even more. I was nearly frenzied with desire.

  Sliding a slick hand from my breast, he cupped my smooth mound. I couldn’t take it. I tried to thrust my hips in invitation, but he held me immobile with his palm.

  His touch was proprietary and firm. I decide, subbie.

  The burning in my pelvis became unbearable.

  “Now,” I begged, reaching up to him with raw longing. “I can’t—”

  The rest of my words were swallowed up by his kiss.

  One hand still on my mound, his other hand at my jaw, he bent over and claimed yet another part of me. His mouth was soft and warm. His tongue was persuasive, curious, just like his fingers had been during the rub down.

  He’d never kissed me before.

  He’d slapped and fucked and terrorized me during our first encounter. Now he was giving me tenderness.

  My tongue touched his, tasting. I’d never experienced a kiss like that. My mind wanted to sink into the kiss forever. But my body was inflamed, too far-gone to enjoy his sweet care. I wanted him inside me, hard and fast.

  He tenderly bit at my bottom lip and tugged it into his mouth, driving me wild. I cried out. He broke off the nibble. Without taking his eyes off me, he stood and stripped off his clothing. His penis was big and firm, just like I remembered. The rest of his body was magnificent, all corded, rippling muscle primed to satisfy me.

  Heat and anticipation spread throughout my body. I wriggled and whined, breathless, while he slipped on a condom. Always the SSC doctor.

  He pressed himself inside me.

  I sighed as my tight nipples scrubbed against the hair of his chest. He pushed deeper. His low rumble of pleasure vibrated against me. My hunger erupted. But he didn’t rock against me. Instead, his strong arms braced next to my shoulders, he paused to look down at me.

  He could admire me later. Now was the time for friction, for wild contact. I writhed under him in agony, trying to initiate movement. He didn’t respond.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Stop moving, subbie,” he warned, his voice low. “I want to feel you.”

  I blinked up at him, surprised and horrified by his order. A raging fire consumed my whole body. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  He didn’t bother to answer.

  I swallowed my unhappy groans and obeyed him. The union of our still bodies was absolutely awful. I struggled to enjoy the sensation of my tenderest skin against his tenderest skin. I focused on finding pleasure in gloving him. I couldn’t. I was too ripe, too ready to be consumed. He continued to gaze at me, so tranquil, waiting, with a satisfied look on his face.

  After an eternity, something happened. I felt our exchanging heat, our mingling juices. I shivered with delicious shock.

  “Chris.”

  He started to glide in and out of me. With a cry of happiness, I wrapped my arms and legs around him. I dug my fingers into his back. His muscles shifted and bunched beneath my fingertips as he thrust. He drove himself deeper. I was so wet I could hear each syncopated stroke. Thrilling to his vital movement after such agonizing quiet, my body jerked and rocked.

  He pumped his hips and my pelvis became liquid fire. I whimpered. The powerful sweep and pulse of his thrusts sent me spiraling toward climax. My whimpers became screams. I thought I’d be ripped down the middle with the force of my orgasm. I shattered.

  I shattered again.

  He wasn’t finished, though. Sliding his hands to my hips, he forced me to match his rhythm.

  “No,” I cried, out of control. “No! Chris! Sir! No!”

  I babbled on and on, my channel clenching and unclenching him as we moved. Finally the spasm of his release brought me to another of my own.

  We both trembled, breathless, holding on to each other for dear life.

  Eventually he freed me from the delectable prison of his body, and he rolled over onto his back. I crawled up to sit atop him, straddling his waist. I caressed his gorgeous shoulders.

  I fake pouted. “You were never going to let me be your figurehead, were you?”

  “Nope.” His earthy eyes full of affection, he stroked my slick, sunscreen-coated thighs. “I wanted to touch you.”

  His admission stirred me. “You’re a romantic.”

  “No. I’m not. I won’t coddle you or spoil you. What I want will always come first.”

  I didn’t really believe him, but I liked the way he was talking about our future. “So, do you want to own me?”

  “That ship has already sailed, subbie. I do own you.”

  I laughed, buoyant. I’d found my One. And he’d found me.

  He slid his hands to grip my waist. The sensation tugged at my womb. “I love you, Briony.”

  The power of his words overwhelmed me. I looked down at my Dominant, my finely sculpted hunk of virility. “I love you, too.” I think I’d fallen in love with him the moment he fed me omelet.

  “Will you commit to me in a deeper, more profound way?”

  I took a breath, my joy evaporating. The only thing more profound than D/s was a Master/slave relationship. No wonder he’d enjoyed that Gorean scene so much. That was what he wanted. A slave.

  “I can’t be your slave, Chris.”

  “I’m not interested in keeping you as a slave. I’m asking if you’ll be my wife.”

  Being a wife didn’t seem all that much better.

  D/s bonds were difficult: all that fluid negotiation, all that peril, all that reliance. Slapping a vanilla legal framework on top of an already complex dynamic was plain nuts
.

  Unless Chris wanted bland and basic. Maybe after a little pre-marriage BDSM action, he expected me to settle down and be a replacement for his dead vanilla wife.

  He stared straight into the center of my being, waiting for an answer.

  I couldn’t breathe, terrified by the thought of a lifetime of surge and suck.

  “Oh, God. I can’t marry you. I don’t care about legalities or status or money. I can’t get my thrills shopping for top-of-the-line barbecues and golf clubs and riding mowers. I don’t want to be lying in bed thinking about money when you finally get around to fucking me.”

  He laughed, rumbling underneath me.

  “It’s not funny,” I hissed. “I really can’t be your wife.”

  His laughter stopped. His expression turned angry and hurt. “I can either laugh at you or I can beat you, Briony. Your choice.”

  I swallowed hard, confused. It was his privilege as my owner to correct me, with or without telling me the reason. It was also my right to leave him afterwards. Of course leaving him was a moot point since we didn’t have a future together. Still, I expected more rationality from him. Was he angry because I said no?

  “Why do you want to beat me?”

  “Because you’ve managed to unfairly savage me, marriage and my dear departed wife in one snotty, closed-minded mouthful. I expected better from you.”

  Was I truly a bigot? Was I really that wrong about vanilla marriages? Maybe I was, but I couldn’t risk finding out. I wasn’t conventional. I wasn’t wife material.

  The boat gently bobbed up and down. I took in the smell of the sea and coconut oil, the sensation of the sun heating my bare shoulders. I felt his fingers still gripping my waist. I had no more future with Chris. My heart broke, the sharp fragments flying into my chest like shrapnel. But I still had my self-respect.

  “Beat me.”

  He didn’t let go of my waist, so I just straddled him, waiting for the blows. He was taking his sweet time. I was strangling on the tension that hung over the boat. Even to the bitter end, he was trying to squeeze emotion from me, unsettle me, surprise me.