G is for...

by L. DuBois

  He worked the wand into her with small thrusts, almost rocking it inside her. He stopped, adjusted the angle, and then started moving it again. This time, she twitched as he stroked her g-spot, that special place in her vagina whose existence had been hotly contested. Every woman who’d ever had a man curl his fingers inside her just the right way knew the g-spot was very real.

  Master Dowell knew what he was doing.

  Her inner thigh muscles twitched and fluttered as he bumped against the sensitive spot repeatedly. He must have been watching her, reading her reactions, because he once more adjusted his motions. Now the stimulator was moving in small, tight motions, moving less than an inch. Pleasure—muted, but pleasure nonetheless, pooled low in her belly. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation. Her brows knit, because it wasn't enough. It was good, but she was greedy. She opened her eyes, pressing her chin towards her chest so she could look at him, adding the visual stimulation of having an extremely sexy girlhood-fantasy-man-come-to-life between her legs. He was looking down at her more intimate and private flesh. His gaze was intense, focused, and he was breathing heavily, mouth slightly open. He liked looking at her pussy, liked studying her. Liked touching her.

  She let those thoughts roll around her mind, savoring them as if they were a hard candy she could pop in her mouth.

  It wasn't enough. It was good, but not enough.

  His fingers still held her pussy open, and she shifted her hips, hoping his fingers would move, hoping he would touch her clit. The motion served to slide the metal wand a bit deeper into her. That took it off her g-spot, but having it deeper was its own kind of satisfaction.

  He released the wand. For a moment, she thought it would slide out, but it didn't, only shifting within her so the handle pressed down heavily on the skin at the back of her entrance.

  He slapped her inner thighs, six quick slaps, three on each side. "Hold still," he commanded.

  She mumbled, then remembered the clicker, and clicked once. Feeling properly cowed, she promised herself she would be still. She didn't want to be punished. She wanted him to keep studying her.

  He cared, she realized. He cared about her pleasure.

  That lit something inside her, and though her thighs were still stinging from the punishing slaps, when he took hold of the wand once more, working it inside her until he once more found that perfect spot, she jumped and moaned around the gag. Spit rolled from the corner of her mouth, and when she arched her back, the trail of saliva slid just below her ear, stimulating the skin there.

  The round ball slid inside her, rubbing her, pressing on her. She fought the urge to move, not wanting him to stop. It felt almost, almost, like she could come from this, but that pool of pleasure he was creating inside her never turned tumultuous and wild; instead it was as if she were now a deep well that he was filling with every small twitch of the wand inside her. But it wasn't just that—it was his gaze on her flesh, not as if he were examining her, but as if he wanted to know everything about her, wanted to touch her in just the right way.

  She closed her eyes and floated in that deep sea of pleasure. It washed away some of her defenses, but also some of her hurt. A hurt she had only tangentially acknowledged until now.

  She wanted to come—of course she did. She wanted her world to splinter and sparkle with the physical and emotional release of orgasm, but at the same time she didn’t want this to end.

  It’s not your decision. That thought cut through her circular internal debate about whether she wanted the g-spot play to keep going.

  She didn't need to choose if she wanted an orgasm or for the current stimulation to continue. Master Dowell would make that decision, all the decisions in the scene. Once again she relaxed into her submission, though she wasn't exactly relaxed. The wand rubbed softly inside her, an intimate and almost secret pleasure. He removed his right hand, so he was no longer holding her body open. Now it was only the g-spot wand.

  "I like looking at you like this." His words were soft. "I know there's something going on in your head. I can see you thinking and worrying, then giving in. Accepting that I'm your Ma—your Dom."

  She pressed her thumb down, clicking once. Yes.

  "Maybe I'll keep you like this the whole weekend. Never letting you come, just playing with you. Touching every part of your pussy but your clit." He was breathing harder, as she was, his words as arousing as a physical stimulus. "Maybe I'll touch every part of your breasts but your nipples. Bite and lick you but never touch you where you want it most.”

  Click, click. No.

  He stopped the wand's small thrusts in and out, and instead pressed up, the ball pressing hard against her G spot. She could have lifted her hips to relieve the pressure, but instead she reveled in it.

  His right hand settled on her crotch, palm over the mound of her vulva. His thumb brushed against her damp labia, then burrowed between. He found her clit and stroked it once.

  Sejal jerked up in response to the intensity of the touch. It was a knee-jerk reaction, one she couldn't have stopped. That was how sensitive he'd made her, how aroused. He murmured soft words, things like "just relax" and "good girl" as he started to stroke her clit in earnest. He started a rhythm, his thumb moving in a steady pattern, circling over the top of her. The calm surface of the well of pleasure inside her was now rough and wild, like a white-capped sea. The straps creaked as her legs tensed. She pulled her arms down and buried her face against her arm. She bit down on the gag so hard her jaw started to ache. It was a good thing she had it, because if not she might have clamped her teeth onto the flesh of her own arm.

  She couldn't hold still. Her ass bounced on the table as she jerked in rhythm with his finger on her clit. He still held the g-spot stimulator inside her, and feeling its long, hard length moving within her was added pleasure. She was going to come. She knew her body well enough to know how close she was, and that this was one of those orgasms that would make her legs shake and toes curl. They hadn't arranged a signal for "I'm close" so she clicked once, waited, then clicked once again. She hoped he understood.

  He pulled the wand from within her, and Sejal's eyes, which had fluttered closed, flew open. She lifted her head, shaking it frantically. She hadn't been saying no. She didn't want this time to stop. If he stopped now, when she was so close to the edge of something wonderful, she might lose it.

  The wand clattered to the floor with a metallic clang. Master Dowell surged to his feet, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.

  For a moment the sight of him overwhelmed her—he was too handsome, too intense. Too much for her. Not right for her.

  Oh but he felt right.

  His hand shifted, two fingers entering her, curling so the tips pressed her g-spot. Sejal's head fell back in both relief that he wasn't ending the scene, and pleasure. Her vaginal muscles clamped down on his finger. She wanted more, and if she hadn't been gagged she would have begged him to add another finger, to fill her up, to make it hurt because mingled pain and pleasure might be enough to satisfy the ravenous need inside her.

  His thumb slid up the valley of her sex, finding her clit once more. Once his hand was in position he bent over her, planting his free hand on the table beside her ribs and then lowering his mouth to her breasts. He nipped the inner edges, and for a horrible moment she thought he'd do what he’d threatened to—to touch her everywhere but her nipples.

  His thumb circled her clit faster, his fingers pumping inside her, and the wild sea within became a storm, a hurricane of pleasure and need and release. She screamed into the gag, body arching up into his so that for a moment the bare skin of her stomach met the hard planes of his chest. He licked his way to her nipple, sucked it into his mouth, and worked her clit harder. Sejal sobbed and moaned, through the orgasm. Her legs tensed, toes curled. Her scalp prickled and her entire lower body pulsed and clenched. Her vagina clamped down on him in rhythmic pulses. It went on for what seemed like ten minutes, though in reality was probably only one or two. The o
rgasm started to fade and she collapsed. His thumb kept circling her clit for a moment, but she was so sensitive it was painful. She winced, and was about to start clicking when he stopped. She pressed her chin against her chest so she could look at him. He still held her nipple in his mouth but he was watching her. He must have seen the wince and known to stop. He rose, like some mighty conqueror, her nipple slipping from between his teeth in a sweet spike of pleasure pain.

  Keeping two fingers buried in her, he undid the straps on her legs with his free hand, his muscles flexing as he twisted.

  The straps fell to the floor, but she didn't move her legs. They were weak and shaky.

  Master Dowell pulled his fingers from her channel and then slowly untied the lacing on his leathers. Sejal would have licked her lips if not for the gag.

  He shoved them down his thighs and his cock sprang out, hard and huge, with a fat plum-like head. He was circumcised, and wet with pre-come.

  His gaze met hers, held it, as he scooped a hand under each knee. Pressing her legs together he positioned her heels on his right shoulder and wrapped his right arm around her thighs to hold them together.

  The hot, blunt tip of his cock stabbed the back of her thigh, sliding until the tip was between her legs.

  He started to thrust, his damp cock fucking the tight space between her legs. He paused once, pulling out, swiping his fingers through her wet pussy, and spreading that wetness along his cock before beginning again.

  There was something sexy and raw about being used this way. She'd never had a man fuck her thighs before, and she liked it. Liked that he would take her body and use her the way he wanted. After only a few minutes his eyes closed, his jaw clenched. His free hand grabbed her breast, kneading as he leaned into her, pressing her knees towards her chest. His rhythm became uneven, as did his breathing. Then he grunted, color staining his cheekbones, and came, ejaculating on her thighs and stomach.

  His stopped, sighed, and leaned his cheek against her foot. When he opened his eyes, his gaze found hers.

  Something passed between them—at least she thought it did. Maybe she was being foolish. Maybe the orgasm, the intensity of what he'd made her feel and experience, made her see a connection that wasn't there. Or, worse, that was one sided.

  Master Dowell kissed her ankle. Sejal's heart lurched.

  Then he grinned at her—a wicked expression that made her tense with anticipation. "I think I like this game."

  8

  Sejal teetered a bit in the heels she was wearing—not because she wasn't able to walk in high heels, but because needle-heeled shoes weren't the easiest thing to walk on at Las Palmas, given that the pathways connecting buildings were usually a combination of flagstone and hard-packed, sandy soil. With each step she took, her naked breasts bounced. More than a few Dom and Dommes looked her way. Some, those whom she recognized and who recognized her, nodded. Several looked inquiringly at her state of undress. Lately she'd been more likely to sport a bra and a strap on than to be walking topless wearing a garter belt, panties, and heels.

  It had been an hour since she'd left Master Dowell. He’d paused their scene, giving them both a break to use the restroom, stretch, and get some water, and for her to have some space and freedom.

  Sejal had also grabbed a packet of nuts out of her locker and eaten those, jaw muscles aching a bit as she chewed. She'd been hungry. Post-exercise hungry, which seemed ridiculous since she'd been lying on an exam table most of the time, but still it felt like she'd worked out. It had been far too long since she'd had the kind of sex that resulted in aching muscles. The one thing Master Dowell had told her as he escorted her to the entrance to the Subs' Garden was that he wanted her wearing a garter belt after the break. Luckily, she'd had one in her locker, though if she hadn't, she was sure one of the other subs would have loaned her something.

  The garter belt was a deep umber with panels of black. She preferred jewel-toned colors both in her lingerie and in the business attire she wore while doing consults and exams. It was a private indulgence—ruby, chartreuse, and emerald blouses. Magenta and navy pencil skirts and carmine and black block color velvet pumps. Most of the time her lab coat covered the clothes. The colors made her feel able to fight biology, chemistry, and the universe to operate on and save people who needed her. They were a hidden sign of her defiance and warrior spirit, masked by the white lab coat, bare face, and simple bun.

  But now she wasn’t hiding. She wore the unique colored lingerie with pride, well aware that the gold tone was something she could pull off with her darker skin and hair, and that most women here favored either black leather and lace or soft pastels. Her gold and purple attire, what little there was of it, made her stand out. Normally she didn’t consciously think about why she chose to wear what she did, but right now, she was, because she was wondering what Master Dowell thought of it. She wished she’d seen him play before. She was confident she hadn’t, because if she had, she would have remembered him, given his resemblance to her imaginary boyfriend.

  What kind of sub did he prefer? What type of scene? The problem with the game was that though he was getting to know her intimately, she knew so little about him. Usually it was easy to read a Dom by the choices they made in the scene. In this case it wasn’t so easy, because though he was her top, the specifics of the scene were decided on by their letter.

  Sejal stopped in front of the door to the playroom they were using, and she automatically went to put her hands into her lab coat pockets. No lab coat, no pockets, so her fingers hit her thighs, sliding along the silky straps of the garter to the tops of the gold-toned stockings she wore.

  She was nervous. That was ridiculous given how much Master Dowell had already touched her. She raised her hand and knocked once, then opened the door and stepped into the room.

  It was empty.

  Sejal wasn’t wearing a watch, but her internal clock was good. It had been fifty to fifty-five minutes, no more than that. She wasn’t late. She was never late.

  Sejal considered that perhaps she was too early. That was possible. Sejal looked around. There wasn’t exactly a good place to wait, at least not comfortably. In the end she decided to go to the makeshift seating area he’d created with the folded gym mats. She sat, knees up near her chest. No, that wasn’t sexy.

  She leaned on one elbow and fluffed her hair. Did she look sultry or tired?

  Maybe if she put one leg up on the mats. No, that seemed weird. Both legs? Better.

  Sejal wiggled and adjusted until she felt appropriately sexy, making sure to listen for the sound of the door opening.

  Five minutes passed.

  Ten.

  Her shoulder started to hurt from the pressure of leaning on it, so she quickly switched sides, scrambling to adjust quickly. She didn’t want him to come in while she was awkwardly rearranging herself. She managed to get into position, including re-fluffing her hair, and the door still hadn’t opened.

  Another five minutes passed.

  He wasn’t coming back.

  Sejal pushed up, heel of her hand pressed hard against the mat. She’d been waiting here for twenty minutes, and was certain it had been over an hour since they’d parted ways.

  That answered her question as to what he liked in subs—not her. She looked down at herself, and the bold-colored satin and lace she wore seemed garish and cheap. A familiar and unwelcome feeling of otherness swept over her. She was different, didn’t fit any mold. The immigrant who was too American to fit in with the Indian ex-pats, and too Indian to relate to the second generation Indian-Americans. The surgeon who was a secret sexual submissive. The submissive who’d spent a year topping. The collared, bound submissive who had happily submitted to another man.

  Her own insecurities rose until she felt like the feelings were strangling her. Sejal surged to her feet, crossed her arms over her bare breasts, hunched her shoulders, and started for the door.

  Why was he so useless?

  Cort raced towards the playroom.
He didn't run—but he was walking fast. He'd lost track of time while perusing the toy selection in the Doms' dressing room. He'd been so lost fantasizing about Sejal, that he was late to see the actual Sejal. Sometimes, most of the time, he was a dumbass.

  Being a Dom was one of the few things he was good at. No, that wasn't right, and wasn't fair to himself. He was good at a lot of different things. What he wasn't good at was follow through. Planning.

  Working out and being a Dom were the only two things he'd stuck with longer than a year. Working out was a habit at this point. Being a Dom, coming to Las Palmas...that was something he dabbled in, despite the fact that he'd been a member for years. He'd go through periods where he was here every day the club was open for a month, and then wouldn't come back for six months after that. Sometimes that coincided with a relationship—though he wasn't good at those either—but sometimes he just didn't put in the effort to show up.

  It was ten minutes past the hour when he skidded to a halt, grabbed the door handle, and pushed it open, all in one movement.

  The door nearly hit Sejal. She yelped and stumbled back a few steps, staying on her feet despite the come fuck me shoes she was wearing. Her arms were over her breasts, and when her startled gaze met his, he thought there might be tears in her eyes. She jerked to the side, turning not just her head but also her whole body away from him.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m late. I know.”

  The words were out before he could stop them. He winced. That wasn’t exactly the most “Dom” thing he could have said.

  “Perhaps it’s best if we revisit the idea of simply lying to the overseers and saying we completed the checklist.”

  Damn fuck shit. She was pissed, upset, or both. The sinking feeling in his gut was familiar. This wouldn’t be the first time a woman had walked away from him because he was useless.

  He wanted to say no. To demand that she stay. Demand that she continue to submit. But he was useless, not an asshole.