de Lune, Clair - Initiation [Prometheus in Chains 1] (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Clair de Lune

  Out in the reception hall, Master Torquil said to Jessica, “You are far too thin. From now on you will eat. I will draw up menus and you will make sure you eat what I tell you to when I tell you to or there will be consequences.”

  She shuddered at that and whispered, “Yes, Master Torquil.” as he escorted her out of the club, his hand on her lower back.

  Master Prometheus looked at the Dom behind the bar and raised his eyebrows but said not a word, none were necessary. Master Torquil had never been known to take a sub home, much less concern himself with what she ate or did not eat.

  Chapter Eight

  Once at her home, Master Angus took Jane’s keys, opened the door, and turned on the light for her. Oh, but she could get so used to this. Then panic gripped her as once again she reminded herself that he was only doing this as a favour for Master Prometheus, and it would not be long before he handed her over to some other Dom or just left her flat after her introduction to the lifestyle was complete. He took her in his arms and kissed her witless then asked, “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

  “No, Master Angus.”

  “I will collect you at ten, and dress for a day in the country.”

  He kissed her again, his tongue invading her mouth, his arms tightening around her, and his erection pressing against her stomach. His strong arms felt so right, and his kisses melted her bones. Abruptly he put her away from him.

  “When do you get the results of those tests?” he asked

  “Monday,” she said, and wished it were Monday already. She could not wait and, by the feel of his erection, neither could he, but he was in control and had said he would not have a condom between them, so wait it would have to be.

  As he went out he said, “Oidhche mhath, mo run.” As usual, he waited until she locked the door behind him. He went down the steps, got into his car, and drove away.

  In a dream, she went about her nightly routine, curled into a ball under the covers, and fell asleep immediately.

  The next morning she was awakened once again by the insistent ring of the doorbell.

  She remembered to look through the window before she opened the door and saw a man holding a large bouquet of apricot roses, so she flung open the door and smiled at him. He gave her an odd look, but she took the roses and, as she walked through the hall to the kitchen, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. No wonder he had looked askance at her. She was clad only in her nightdress, cream silk with spaghetti straps, and one strap had broken, allowing one side to sag and reveal one less-than-firm white breast. Oh my! Once, she would have been mortified, but today it did not seem to matter so much. After all, everyone had seen everything she had to offer last night, and the roses needed to be put in water soon.

  She found her best Edinburgh crystal vase and arranged the roses carefully. She was not very good at arranging flowers and envied those who, seemingly with the flick of a wrist, made a few blooms look like a work of art. She opted for cutting some roses shorter than the others and quite liked the effect she managed to achieve. From past experience she knew that messing about with the “arrangement” more would make it a whole lot worse. She chose to keep them on the table in the kitchen where she ate the meals she prepared, and she would be able to look at them often. The card said, “I am proud of you. M. Angus.” She glowed at his praise and giggled to see how discreet he had been while still reminding her he was a Dom.

  Her porridge eaten, and she really must stop adding cream and sugar to it, and the first of the many cups of tea she drank in a day finished, she showered, washed, and set her hair. Several changes of clothes later, she was dressed in a white balcony bra decorated with violets, the small heart charm on it nestled between her breasts. Over it she added a white stretch camisole, trimmed with lace, as it was none too warm outside, and looked at herself in the mirror. It clung to her curves she was pleased to see. She put on a pale pink brushed cotton shirt and a deeper pink cashmere cardigan. Next she answered her e-mails and checked the weather forecast, adding a pink and white waterproof to her waiting handbag and put on socks and trainers.

  She sat down to enjoy another cup of tea and had almost finished when the doorbell sounded again. She had her hand on the door to open it when she remembered and went to look through the window and met Master Angus’s eyes. He smiled his approval. Fortunately, he did not know how close she had been to flinging wide the door without looking. That was a close shave. She saw he was wearing jeans.

  “No kilt today, Master Angus?”

  “I don’t always wear it,” he replied.

  “I suppose not,” she said and giggled. “They said in the club you had been a paratrooper, so you would not wear it then.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” he asked, and he chuckled as he watched the thoughts chasing across her face.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Just so. One hand for the kilt”—he pretended to reach back between his legs and bring the fabric forward and hold it over his cock—“and one for the parachute.” He raised one hand above his head.

  “It gives a whole new meaning to Scottish Country Dancing,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “Will you come in for a cup of tea, Master Angus?”

  “No,” he said, “rain is forecast for this afternoon, so we must get on while it’s fine.”

  So saying, he took her keys and, when she had collected her bag and waterproof, he locked the door and helped her into the car. He drove in silence in the city until they began to take country roads.

  “I want to take this time together outside the club to clear up a number of things,” he said, and her heart sank. This was it. He had seen she was getting too close to him, and he was going to remind her that he would have finished with her soon. She sat frozen, her hands clasped on her lap, biting her lips and trying not to cry or let him know she was upset. She looked out of the window but saw nothing through the tears that clouded her eyes.

  Why had she thought there might be more? She knew he did not take subs. She had been warned, and still she had let herself hope and feel, and now she had no one to blame but herself. It was good that he was going to tell her while they were alone so she would not disgrace herself or him in the club, and it was thoughtful of him not to tell her in her own home, where the memory would always haunt her. She sank her nails into her palms trying to regain control of herself. She would not beg!

  “Do not worry, mo run,” he said. He could sense all was not right with her, but he had to keep his eyes on the road.

  Hell, he thought. “What now?”

  Ten minutes later, they entered a pretty village. A stream ran through the middle of it and bisected the village green. Wooden picnic tables with attached benches were scattered over the grass, and a paved area was set aside for parking. The air was clean and pure, and even though it was fairly cold the sun shone for the present. It was early in the year for a picnic, and the daffodils the area was famed for were no longer in bloom so there were not many people visiting the area. Consequently, the car park was almost empty and none of the tables were in use. A few weeks ago, when the daffodils were all in full bloom, the parking area would have been full to overflowing with people eager to see the spring flowers.

  He helped her out of the car, but she kept her head down and did not look about her. He chose a table close to the car and arranged rugs on the benches as she waited passively for the axe to fall.

  He put the large wicker basket on top of the bench and pulled out a red-and-white checked tablecloth, arranging a bottle and two glasses on it.

  “Sparkling apple juice. I hope you like it.” He frowned when she did not look up or reply. “Sit down, Jane. I have some things to say, and I want you to listen then I will answer your questions. Ten years ago I lost my wife to cancer. She was my slave. I had never wanted that sort of D/s relationship but anything less made her so unhappy I went along with it. It was very hard work for me and a strain to be all she wanted me to be. I have a business to run and found
it difficult to make every decision for her, what she wore, what she ate and when, et cetera. When she wanted to continue all through her illness and tried to force me to spank her and more, I could not bring myself to do that to someone as ill as she was.

  “Consequently, when she died, we were not on the best of terms to put it mildly. I was devastated and felt guilty. I felt I had let her down.”

  Jane’s hand stole across the table. She laid it over his hands, which were so tightly clasped together the knuckles showed white.

  “I swore never to be in that position again. Until now I have never taken a sub to train or done more than play a scene at the club from time to time. Now I find I want more than that. You asked what a Dom wants from a sub and no doubt got the stock answer. I am going to tell you what I want from a sub. I will not have a slave. I do expect complete submission in the bedroom and in the club and also when we are alone. I am a dominant male and will want to have a say in all areas of my sub’s life, but I will not choose her friends or her clothes. But I will expect her to take my views into account. Many things can be discussed and agreement reached, but if I give an order I will have instant obedience or there will be consequences. Now ask your questions.”

  “What sort of consequences?”

  “Spanking, denial of orgasm. It depends what the punishment is for.”

  “What is a sub’s worst offence in your view?”

  “Lying directly or by not telling me something I should know. I would use a paddle for that or a crop. Can you live with that?”

  “What are you asking me?” she said, hope shining in her eyes.

  “I want you to be my sub. I will train you, and we will see how we get on with that. I can’t promise forever…yet.”

  “I will take what I can get,” she said before realizing how revealing that was.

  “Good, now that’s out of the way, let’s eat this food before it pours down.” He pointed to a big black cloud, still in the distance but which seemed to be heading their way. He opened the basket, and she smiled. All the food had been bought ready prepared, but it was from Marks & Spencer and bound to be delicious. They ate their little sandwiches, full of tasty prawns in mayonnaise, chicken salad, egg and cress, and cheese with ham. There were mini sausages and small Cornish Pasties. For afters he had provided Wensleydale cheese, made not far from where they were sitting, grapes, and crisp Cox’s apples, which were surely from New Zealand as the British season was long over. While they ate, they chatted about music and food and books, likes and dislikes, like a normal couple on a date just getting to know one another.

  He had said she must call him Master now and not Master Angus whenever they were alone or in the club. She was grateful he did not want to pursue the lifestyle in public.

  “Do you understand why you should call me just Master now?” he asked.

  “Not really, just Master. Is it because the other Masters are unjust?”

  He laughed loudly at that. “Cheeky little sub,” he growled in mock anger. “You know what happens to cheeky subs!”

  “Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.”

  “There you go telling me lies. You are not really sorry.”

  Her eyes widened as she remembered the paddle.

  “Yes I am truly sorry, Master. Believe me.”

  “Hmm, I will accept your apology this time,” he said and she detected a wry look on his face.

  “You will call all the other Masters by their name or “Sir” as a mark of respect, but you have only one Master, me, so you need not call me by my name unless we are with other people who are not in the lifestyle.”

  “Yes, Master.” A smile wreathed her face. “Master, what is your surname?”

  When he said, “Scott,” she burst out laughing.

  The picnic came to an abrupt end as fat drops of rain started to fall. By the time they had packed up the basket and grabbed the rugs, they had to run through a downpour to the car, luckily not too far off.

  Chapter Nine

  When they got back to her house, they took the basket indoors so she could salvage what could be recycled. He raised his brows as she sorted paper and plastic and glass, washed the bottles, and put everything in bins but did not comment or move to stop her.

  He had been pleased to see his roses in a beautiful vase on the table.

  “Tea or coffee, Master?”

  “Tea, but it must be black and none of those fruit teas!”

  “I don’t like them,” she said. “Sugar and milk?”

  “Just milk, thank you.”

  He carried their mugs, the teapot and milk jug, and a plate of homemade biscuits she had arranged on a tray into the living room. He placed it on a low table and sat beside her on the sofa. The room had two walls of fitted bookcases filled to overflowing. Photos and mementos littered every surface. He put down his mug and picked up a photo.

  “Tell me about your family.”

  As they ate and drank she told him about her sons and daughter and their children and her hopes for them and their futures. When they had finished their tea, he stood up and went to look at the collection of CDs.

  “Lots of classical stuff here…Yours?”

  “No, Master. They belonged to my husband, but I have not had the heart to give them away yet.”

  “Where are yours?”

  “Mine are put away as my music is on my iPods.”

  “One iPod is usually sufficient for most people.”

  “Yes, Master, but I enjoy listening to books while I sew.”

  “What do you sew?”

  “I make quilts and cushion covers and sometimes play mats.”

  “Can I see your work?”

  “Certainly, Master, if you want to.” She picked up an album and showed him the pictures.

  “You gave it all away,” he said, and although it wasn’t a question, she nodded.

  “Have you nothing here?”

  She pointed to a cross-stitch picture of a sailing boat and one of a vase of flowers in stump work.

  “Is that all?”

  “The quilt on my bed.”

  “Show me!”

  On the bed there was a king-size Baltimore quilt of twelve appliquéd panels with heavily appliquéd and embroidered borders and corner pieces.

  “You are amazing. The arthritis must make it difficult?”

  “It does,” she said, “but if I don’t make the effort to use my hands they will become too stiff for anything at all.”

  He took both her hands in his and kissed each finger then her knuckles, licked over her palms, and took first one thumb then the other into his mouth and sucked on them. She clamped her legs together as a jolt of electricity shot to her cunt, and moisture gathered in her slit and made her knickers damp.

  “Strip now,” he ordered, and she did. He removed the quilt with care, and she noticed that he ran his fingers over and over the Celtic knot in the centre square. He folded the quilt carefully and laid it over the back of a chair. “Kneel on the edge of the bed knees apart.”

  When she had done that, he asked, “Can you raise your arms above your head, shoulders on the bed?”

  “No, Master, sorry.”

  “Then show me what you can do.”

  She lay face down and rested her forehead on her arms.

  “Is that comfortable? Don’t you want your head on one side?”

  “No, Master. I can’t twist my neck for long periods.”

  “How do you know I want you like this for a long period?”

  “You like my submission, Master.”

  He was pleased that she had realized that was exactly what he liked. She had asked what a Dom wanted from his sub, and submission, the gift a sub gave by putting herself in the power of her Dom, relinquishing all control and the trust she must have in him to do this was, for him, what he craved, what he needed, what made him hard, what made him feel alive. He felt alive now and empowered like he had not felt in years and he growled, “Just so, lassie. Toys?”

  “
In that drawer by the bed.”

  He took out a box and selected a large vibrator, marked like a cock in an improbable pink.

  “You will need lube for this. Have you any?”

  “Same box.”

  He took the lube and, once he had coated the vibrator well, he began to play. He turned it on low and ran the tip up and down her cunt. Rarely did he touch her clit, and when she moved her hips seeking to make contact with the vibrator, he smacked her, causing more moisture to gather. He pushed the vibrator into her vagina and fucked her slowly with it, gradually turning up the speed and unerringly finding her G-spot every time he pushed it into her. She writhed and moaned and gasped out her pleasure. He turned off the vibrator, taking it out of her and replacing it with his fingers, which he curled as he fucked them in and out, driving her higher. Taking his fingers out of her cunt, he spread her juices around her back hole. She shivered and clenched her buttocks earning herself a couple of sharp slaps for her pains. He pushed one finger in. It burned and stung, and she writhed.

  “Be still!” he said.

  She tried to comply, but as he drew the finger out she sagged and sighed. Her relief was short-lived, however, as he pushed two fingers back in and began to stretch her. In spite of herself she began almost to like it. The tingling burning sensation and the pinch of pain should have turned her off, but it aroused her. Then he flicked her clit with the vibrator at the same time and began to fuck her with it. As the vibrator went in, his fingers came out, then the vibrator came out and his fingers pushed in. She began to arch and push her bottom out to get more, and he chuckled and gave her what she asked for, turning the vibrator to full power and changing the angle so that it scraped over her G-spot as he fucked her in and out with it. She moaned and he picked up the pace again. The familiar tension began to coil deep in her womb and spread as he took the vibrator in the hand he had used to play with her anus. He continued to fuck her with the vibrator while he pinched her clit between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand at the same time. She came in wave after wave of pleasure, screaming his name as she came. He dropped the vibrator and massaged her clit through all the aftershocks. Due to his ministrations, there were many. He left her for a few minutes, and she heard him washing his hands then he came back and gathered her in his arms.