Plaything: Volume One

by Jade West

  And I wanted him.

  As crazy as my predicament was, in this twisted, horrible place, I wanted him. In his eyes was a purity, an honesty, a flame of decency and passion I’d never seen in another. It knocked my breath.

  “Close your eyes,” he reminded me.

  This time I wanted to do as I was told.

  His lips traced a beautiful pattern down my neck, across my collarbones, and down slowly, torturously slowly, until I was arching my back and aching for his touch on my breasts. When his lips closed around my nipple I let out a moan. I felt him smile against my skin, and he sucked at me with perfect pressure. The tiniest nip, a short sharp shock, and his satin words were spinning through my brain.

  “The smallest touch of pain, Amy, is more than enough in the right hands.”

  “Please…” I whimpered, and I didn’t even know what I was asking for.

  He did. He seemed to know exactly. He loosed my wrists, and solid hands palmed my breasts, gripping and teasing. His touch was exquisite, perfect, leaving waves of tingles as he made his way down across my stomach. He wrapped his toned arms around my thighs and held them firm.

  “You are beautifully wet for me,” he groaned. “I’m going to enjoy fucking you, so very much.”

  I jumped as his tongue teased my pussy lips. He found my clit in a heartbeat, but kept me wanting, skirting just close enough to drive me wild. My hands gripped the pillows under my head, and I bit my lip to stop myself crying out.

  “Be still,” he said. “Remember your place, Amy.”

  “Yes,” I gasped.

  “Yes what?”

  And the answer was so obvious, so perfectly obvious. “Yes, sir…”

  “Good girl. You can come now.” He gave me what I needed, gripping my clit between his lips and sucking me tight until I lost my mind. I wheezed and rasped and fisted the sheets, but the man didn’t lose his concentration. He played me like an instrument, sliding two fingers inside me at just the right moment. He curled them forwards, the perfect fucking spot. Jesus.

  I don’t know what I said when I came, what crazy string of hissed words spilled from my mouth, but by the time my orgasm subsided I was a panting wreck. I managed a smile at the ceiling, the insanity of the situation fading into oblivion under his touch, and for that moment we were just two people, two lovers. It felt nice.

  He climbed back up until we were face to face, and his eyes were serious. This time he didn’t ask me to close mine, and I didn’t want to. My arms wrapped around him, fingers tracing his spine and exploring the muscular plains of his back. He was an amazing specimen of a man, with quite a cock to match, I noted as I felt him push against me. His first thrust was slow but deep, his forehead pressed to mine as he eased all the way in. My ankles hooked around his thighs, urging him on, but he kept his own pace, slow and deliciously steady, savouring every single movement.

  “It could feel so good, this experience,” he whispered. “I’ll make it feel so good for you, if you’ll just trust me.”

  I’d be insane to trust anyone in this place, and yet I did. I hardly knew him, and once this was over I knew I’d be scared of him, and this crazy experience all over again, but right then he had me. Right then I trusted him. In that moment Robert was the lifeline I needed, and I held onto him with everything I had.

  “Yes…” I hissed. “Please… fuck me… I want to feel you come…”

  “No,” he growled. “My rules.”

  Oh the torture, his teasing rhythm, his absolute self-control. I unraveled all around him, but he remained unmoved, taking his time and his pleasure in my body however he deemed fit. It was a long while before his movements became more frantic, and I felt his muscles tense, his skin hot and sheened with sweat. His mouth clamped over mine, and I kissed him hard, desperate to feel him lose control. When he came he came hard, slamming his cock in deep and pinning me tight. I loved the feel of him, loved the low growls from his throat.

  We caught our breath slowly, and he kissed my forehead before he pulled out. He’d come inside me, and it felt nice. I felt marked by him, owned, and it didn’t feel degrading like with Alistair. It felt so different.

  “Are you ok?” he asked.

  My heart slowed, and the endorphin rush spiked then faded, leaving me floating, unanchored. I felt something break in me, some tiny part I didn’t recognize. The tears that spilled from my eyes weren’t the hysterical, lonely ones that filled my nights. These were quiet tears, cleansing tears. Tears that promised just a sliver of acceptance. I felt both happy and sad at the same time.

  “Talk to me, Amy,” Robert said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He propped himself up on an elbow, eyes on mine, and his fingers took my wrist, a gentle squeeze.

  “I don’t know,” I breathed. “I don’t know how I feel.”

  “This is much quicker than I’d have chosen to do things, but that is out of my hands, I’m sorry for that.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just everything.”

  “I can only imagine how hard this situation must be for you.”

  “You’re making it easier.” I managed a smile. “Please don’t leave me until I’m ready. Please don’t let me down, Robert. I’ll never cope with that life unless you make a submissive out of me.”

  “I’m going to do my best,” he said. His brows were heavy, but his eyes were kind. “I can promise you that, Amy. Just promise you’ll do your best for me, too. We’ll work it out between us.”

  I hoped so. I really hoped so.

  I felt a strange craving for intimacy, for the warmth of his embrace, but if he felt that he didn’t respond. He raised himself from the bed with an unreadable expression, and got himself dressed. I watched his every move, learning him, learning his body. The more I studied him the less I saw the family resemblance. Robert had none of Alistair’s flaws; not the meanness in his eyes, or the cruelty in his touch. He was more attractive, sharper, wiser… qualities that no doubt would have driven his younger brother green-eyed with jealousy.

  Of course it drove Alistair green-eyed with jealousy. Their relationship was a festering pile of animosity, stewed to boiling point through a long line of sibling rivalry. It made perfect sense. That tension in the library, the hate in Alistair’s eyes, the hate in Robert’s, too… Yes, there had been hate there. Hate I hadn’t seen from him since.

  My own family life had left a lot to be desired, so much so that I now had nobody to even call my own. It was better that way, even the lonely years I’d spent wandering as a lost sheep, searching for something, anything. I’d found that solace in men, in sex, in crazy adventures, but it was always short-lived. At least for me the painful, septic family ties were gone, burned. For Robert they were still alive, binding him tight to this place, his fortunes tied up with the people he looked upon with nothing but disdain. It must have been something pretty bad that dragged him back into this place. He’d told me enough to know it was serious. Had they really that much control over him? Enough that he was holed up with me on a ridiculous mission to tame me for some foreign bigwig in the old family home. Questions danced on my tongue, but I quietened them. Now wasn’t the time. I wasn’t certain there would ever be one. Robert didn’t look quite the type to be sharing secrets over a campfire, somehow.

  I pondered the man some more as he buttoned his shirt. He had the calm composure of a man who is used to getting what he wants, a man who works hard, knows his own strengths and knows his own weaknesses even more.

  Alistair had none of Robert’s composure. He was erratic and brash, nothing short of a show off. A spoiled, mean, sadistic sonofabitch. That vile shit of a father must have been beside himself when Robert flew the nest; chancing his fortune and empire on the wrong son.

  I was a pawn in a much bigger game. A family game. This was about more than a sale gone wrong, this was something else altogether. The thought gave me the shivers. I brushed it aside for my own ailing sanity.

  “What now?” I asked. �
��Are you leaving?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not leaving you here. I don’t trust my brother.”

  “You’re staying?” My eyes flew wide. “Here, I mean?”

  “The day is young and we have work to do, but once evening comes I won’t be sharing a bed with you,” he said. “Unless…” His worlds trailed to nothing as he thought better of it. His next statement was entirely more resolute. “I won’t be sharing a bed with you, Amy. This will be your room.”

  “And where will you be sleeping?”

  “That’s my concern,” he said. “You concentrate on heeding my words, and I’ll concentrate on the finer details of our accommodation.”

  “Ok,” I shrugged.

  He walked around the bed until he was stood before me, and his presence made me tingle. The mood had changed and he was so coolly composed, as if the past few hours had never happened. “In this place you have only one thing to worry about.” His voice was commanding, powerful. “You worry about my words, my instruction, my pleasure. You worry about me. That’s the only thing you worry about.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Ok.”

  “Yes what?”

  Memories of the moment flooded back, the way it had come so easily to me… “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “From now on you will refer to me only as sir, and you will come to enjoy it. You may even come to need it. That’s our desired result, Amy.”

  I took a breath. “I hope so, sir, for my own sake.”

  “Indeed,” he smiled, sadly. He held out a hand, and I took it without hesitation, rising to my feet and standing before him without the frazzle of nerves I’d experienced earlier. “You must be hungry, let’s eat. I’ll get you some clothes and we’ll begin the next stage of your instruction.”

  Food sounded good, so did clothes. I smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to go; you may not be feeling so grateful later.”

  I followed him into the entrance room, and awaited my next instruction.

  Chapter Four

  Robert

  There was a hamper on the kitchen counter that had been delivered by a servant to the bungalow before Amy’s arrival. I set it on the small table and unpacked the contents. It was a collection of breads and cheeses – the kind of simple foods that lovers might pack for a picnic. I laid everything out on the tabletop, set the hamper aside, and then gestured for Amy to sit across from me.

  I have no love of food. I eat because I have to.

  But I enjoy dining. I conduct all my business dealings at restaurants because to sit across from a corporate rival is like sitting across the chessboard from another Grandmaster. The pleasure for me is in the battle of wills. The food itself is incidental.

  Amy scraped back her chair, clawed a tangle of hair away from her face, and sat like a beautiful bird alighting. She was dressed in just panties and a t-shirt. She sat with her shoulders back, and there was a satisfied little thrust to the way she held her chin – something close to confidence, almost.

  “You did not bring me pleasure,” I said quietly, and saw a flicker of confusion pass behind her eyes like a sudden dark shadow. “I took my pleasure from you… remember that.” There was the slightest flinch in Amy’s expression: a flinch of offense.

  Good.

  She pursed her lips and made her eyes wide and artless. “What do you mean?” she asked with delicate politeness, but I sensed the trace of venom in her tone.

  I broke a piece of bread and set it onto a plate, taking my time. “I mean what I said,” the battle began with this simple opening gambit designed to keep her off balance. “You did nothing with your body to give me pleasure. You responded to my movements. You initiated nothing. You were compliant… in the way that any passive woman would be.”

  Amy’s expression darkened, and I could sense the angry retort sting her lips. She sat back, her face making all kinds of expressions, and then she gave a petulant huff.

  “I was being submissive,” she said. “That’s what you’re training me to be, right?”

  I inclined my head, but I did not agree.

  There was a block of cheese on the table. I took a long silent moment to cut it into several slices. When I was ready, I sat back in the chair and folded my arms across my chest. I gave Amy a bemused look.

  “What do you think submission really is, Amy?”

  She frowned. It was the most obvious of questions, and yet it seemed as though the answer left her utterly bewildered. The expression on her face became irritated. “Submission is surrendering,” she said at last. “It’s letting someone else do what they want with your mind and your body. Submission is giving yourself to another person.”

  I said nothing. My smile widened but there was no humour in the expression. My eyes stayed cold and hard.

  “How?”

  “What?”

  “How?” I asked again, patiently. “How do you do all those things that you believe are the cornerstones of submission?”

  Amy shook her head irritably. Her hair swished across her shoulders. “You just do,” she said, the words now laced with her rising temper. “You go cold, dead. You shut down and feel nothing. It’s easier that way.”

  I pushed myself away from the table so the noise of the chair scraping against the slate floor tiles was like a sharp loud scream.

  “No!” I said. “You don’t do that at all, Amy. In fact,” I put my hands on my hips and stood over her, deliberately imposing, “In fact, you do the exact opposite.”

  The harsh sound of my voice made Amy flinch and cower. It was time for check-mate.

  “What… but I don’t understand,” she flustered.

  My eyes bored into her, the force of my gaze pinned her to the chair as if she were transfixed.

  “To understand submission you need knowledge,” I said with all the conviction of my belief. “And to become submissive – truly submissive – you need passion. You need to feel submission, Amy,” I thumped my chest dramatically and she flinched again. “It has to be something within you, something real that you feel. It has to be a part of you… because submission is a personal thing. It’s private. You can only submit to someone once you truly are submissive. It has to be as much a part of you as love, fear, sadness and joy.”

  Amy was frowning, but no longer was her expression tinted with frustration. There was some deeper understanding taking place – some slow spark of realization, perhaps. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and looked up into my face with wide child-like eyes.

  “But knowledge…? You said to understand submission I need knowledge? What does that mean?”

  I rubbed my chin. The scent of Amy’s arousal was still a lingering perfume on my fingers. I inhaled her scent as I drew a deep breath.

  I held out my hands in a gesture as if I were presenting her with the gift of wisdom.

  “Can you speak Spanish?” I asked, apparently changing the subject in an instant.

  “No.”

  “Not a word?”

  Amy shook her head. The frown of her expression became clouded with confusion once more.

  “Then if I speak to you in Spanish, you would not understand anything I said, right?”

  “Right, pretty much.”

  “But if I told you a single Spanish word, and then used it in a sentence, you would recognize that word when I said it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “And so if I give you the knowledge of a single word, you suddenly would understand something of Spanish.”

  “Yes…” Amy’s voice changed. Her tone became dawning understanding.

  “So if I give you knowledge about submission – real information about what it means to submit, and how you can submit without surrendering your soul – you are suddenly gifted knowledge that you can recognize… and use…”

  “…To become a better submissive,” Amy finished my sentence.

  I th
rust a finger at her, satisfied that I had made my point “Correct!”

  I said it with a smile.

  * * *

  “Submission is not a series of actions, or reactions,” I explained to Amy with the patient care of a teacher talking to a student. “Submission is much more than physical surrender. It starts in your heart and soul, Amy – it is a profound sense of need that you should feel. And if you aren’t feeling it… you cannot ever surrender and embrace your own sense of satisfaction.”

  Amy tilted her head as if the words were somehow foreign to her. “I’m not new to this stuff,” she said in pointed defiance.

  I nodded. “I know. You told me enough of your past. But never once did you talk about how those pain sessions felt. Not once did you tell me how those moments made you feel… and I doubt you ever felt anything – apart from humiliated.”

  Amy was becoming irritated. She took my comments as a criticism. She propped her hand on a hip and shifted her weight onto one leg. She lifted her chin and there was a spark of anger in her eyes.

  “You don’t know me,” she said through clenched teeth.

  I arched an eyebrow, and then thrust my hands deep into my pockets, holding her gaze with a steady, unfaltering look.

  “I know you,” I countered. “I know that you have used pain like a drug. You used those sensations to mask your true feelings. You used the pain to numb your senses to enable you to submit. But that’s not submission. You might as well pop a handful of pills before you spread your legs,” I growled harshly.

  Amy said nothing. The sudden tension in the room crackled and sparked. She held my gaze for a long moment, and then her eyes flickered. She glanced down at her feet, and there was something hollow and fragile in the way her posture altered.

  I went to her and put my hands on her shoulders. I could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. She was trembling. I applied a little pressure, and she slowly sank to her knees before me.