She’d hissed in protest. He’d kept his eyes on hers, looking for something. Evidently he’d found it. “This stalling is pissing me off,” he’d said. “Or is that what you’re trying to do?”
“I’m not trying to do anything,” she protested.
“Sure you are, you want to get laid, like all women.” Another kiss silenced any possible protest.
By the time he had released her again she was panting. How had this man taken control of her so quickly, with barely a word spoken and none of the formalities of dating and courtship?
She knew it had to do with her own dark desires, the fantasies she’d had off and on of dominating, cruel men using her as a sex toy. Up to then it had been a dream. Rave was the first man to make it real.
“Get in the car,” he had told her. “Take us somewhere...private.”
She had driven directly to her apartment, not thinking of any of the consequences. Rave wasted no time thrusting his hand up under her skirt and between her legs.
She’d moaned, giving him better access. He’d asked her questions about things she’d tried during sex before. The answers were all no; though the way she writhed on his hand gave good indication she wanted them to be yeses.
They’d gone immediately to her bedroom, where he’d seen the brass railings. When he’d gotten done with his smart ass comments he told her to strip.
“Got any rope?” he’d wanted to know. “Or scarves, maybe?”
“In my drawer,” she’d whispered.
He’d taken hold of the silk scarves. “These will do.”
“Wh—where do you want me?” she’d asked, hugging her naked flesh.
He’d grinned at her modesty. “We’ll have to break you of that.”
And break her he had; with a sound spanking over his knee.
A mere appetizer for what had followed.
Out in the living room, Liandra heard the TV. Some all night sports channel with an old boxing match. Another beer can popped open.
He was humiliating her, making her wait on all fours for her punishment while he amused himself.
It would be so easy to get up, cover herself, lock the door, throw him out, whatever. But they both knew she wouldn’t.
She wouldn’t play with herself, either, though her pussy was screaming out for attention. Her inner thighs were slick. Her juice was running. What kind of normal woman got herself worked up from crawling or from thinking about a man’s belt cracking over her ass again and again?
The waiting was a power thing; he had it and she didn’t. That was the nature of their relationship. She got off on the submission and he got off on the domination. A blanket excuse for exploitation in his case. Rave saw no responsibility on his end. Her need for submission didn’t enter into it; otherwise she wouldn’t sit around lonely, night after night when all she wanted in the world was to go to her man, have him enjoy her, put her through paces, pain, pleasure, maybe just a quiet time of snuggling in front of the TV.
It wasn’t about getting her own way, she just wanted him around.
…or else gone altogether.
But Rave wasn’t about happy mediums.
Nothing at all was medium about the man. It was all king size, from his ego to his cock, not to mention his ability to screw up Liandra’s life.
He hadn’t been kidding about the fucking part, though.
He was good, the best Liandra had ever heard.
“Think you’ve got room,” he’d crowed, taking his member out for the first time.
“It’s...it’s...” Liandra was at a loss for words.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he’d supplied, taking her by the hair to guide her in place for her first blow job.
Her ass was already stinging and red from the spanking but that didn’t stop him from making his first ever reference to his belt.
“Treat it nice, sweetheart or that pretty little ass of yours will be tasting leather.”
Something inside her had given way. She’d taken him like a god, surrendering her mouth for his pleasure, allowing her lips and swirling tongue to be at his full disposal.
“That’s it, girl,” he’d encouraged, throbbing deep and hot.
He groaned in satisfaction, releasing himself.
She’d tried not to gag on the warm, thick jet of semen, spurt after spurt blasted to the back of her throat. Men had used her mouth before, men almost this large, but none had acted like they belonged there, like it was their god given right to come down her throat and her greatest purpose in life to submit to them.
Her pussy had spasmed as he came. She ached for his touch, his plunging penetration, then as she did now.
She told herself somehow this was discipline building, getting herself ready for a master of her own. If she had the guts, she’d go online. There were personals sections, matching services. Love connections for the profoundly kinky. But that felt like cheating. Shouldn’t a woman meet her man in the real world, the old-fashioned way, with the blessing of chance?
Brushing up against him at a supermarket checkout line or maybe on a jog through the park; she’d certainly imagined it enough times.
You’d think she’d meet someone through her work, another architect or a project engineer. But the good ones were all taken as the saying went or else decompressing from bad relationships. Always a day late and a dollar short, Liandra was. So pretty, they all said, but never swept off her feet.
“You’re running low on beer,” Rave announced as he entered the room.
Liandra stiffened. Naked with your pussy and ass exposed to a sadist was hardly a time to keep things in perspective. “I’m sorry,” she promised. “I’ll get more tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t help me tonight, does it?”
“No,” she agreed quickly. “It doesn’t.”
Rave’s tone darkened like a freak storm on a sunny day. “Are you fucking with me or what?”
“No, I swear it, Rave!”
He snatched up the belt. “You need to be reminded who’s boss around here.”
“You are, Rave...”
Rave smacked her ass with his palm. “Get those fucking thighs apart.”
“Yes, Sir,” she panted.
The belt whistled through the air, her only warning to the agony she was about to suffer.
She gritted her teeth as the belt laced into her. Rave did not like her crying out during punishment; his was very much the school of thought that if a woman cried he’d give her something worse to cry about.
“That one’s for giving me lip,” he said.
“S—sorry, Sir,” she sniveled.
He let her have it again, a soaring rip into her upper thighs.
Oh, hell that hurt.
“And that one’s for not kneeling when I came in.”
“I—I’ll do better,” she promised, though he didn’t have any established rule about kneeling.
That was another problem with Rave. No consistency. What she did right yesterday might be wrong today and right again tomorrow. She understood that a master could change his mind at will, but how was a slave supposed to obey, even if she wanted to? Or was that the idea, to confuse, to dismay and break a girl down over and over? She wished there was someone to teach her, to make sense of things. Again, there was the Internet, but there was that ‘freakiness’ factor. She shied away from leather people, witches with horns. Her daddy’s prejudices, probably.
Was it so bad to want a dungeon and a white picket fence, too?
Rave swung his arm high, catching her on the back.
“Ow!” she wailed.
He retaliated, his hand seizing her curls. “You got a problem, slut?”
Liandra’s head was bent back. He was pulling her hair to the roots. “No, Sir,” she whimpered. “I don’t.”
“This is getting old, Lee,” he snarled. “And so is this.”
His finger accessed her sopping wet pussy, letting her know just what it was he considered old.
She moved against him, all her ins
ecurities ignited at once. Bad as this arrangement was, at least it was something. Having submitted this much to him, how could she bear to be alone?
“Rave...I’m only thirty,” she pleaded. “You said yourself last time how tight I still am, like a teenager.”
“I say a lot of shit.” He went to work on her clit. “Especially when I’m drunk.”
Liandra pushed out her ass in preparation for complete self-degradation. “Just fuck me, Sir, please? Use my hot pussy. I’ll be tight for you...just like a teenager.”
His finger disappeared. “I’ve met somebody else, Lee.”
“You...you what?” The words crashed on her ears like falling glass.
Rave pushed his cock between her puffy, wet lips, mounting her from behind. “I’m fucking another girl, Lee. Do I have to spell it out?”
Actually he did. She’d presumed he was fucking other women all along. It wasn’t like they were going steady or anything. What was special about this one?
“Are...are you serious about her?”
He snorted. “Am I serious about anything?”
Liandra released a moan as he pushed himself to the hilt, slamming his balls against her sore ass. His hands went to her waist. Oh, god, she loved that kind of pressure, the control of a man’s strength, knowing she was right where he wanted her, doing just what he needed to get off.
Like he was masturbating inside her.
Her body responded; it was in her programming, it was in her blood. “I—I need to come,” she shuddered.
“No, pumpkin, I don’t think so,” he denied her.
Liandra grasped the sheets, clawing at them. “Puh—please, Sir?” she whined, knowing she’d have to demean herself a good long while before he’d finally grant permission.
“What did you call me?”
Liandra hated this part. She knew what he wanted and she knew she’d have to give it to him but she didn’t have to like it.
“Please...Master, may I come?”
Why did he want that, anyway? It wasn’t like he really was her master. Just claiming the title to get himself off seemed patently unfair. Being a master was a lot more than sex; that much Liandra knew. It was in the mind and in the heart; it was about trust...and love.
“She’s a bartender,” said Rave, as if she’d asked. “She has a smoking hot body. She’s twenty three, fucks like a bunny.”
A bartender with big tits...sounded like a match made in heaven. “Is she...is she submissive?” Liandra couldn’t resist asking.
Rave laughed cruelly. “She doesn’t have to be, honey. She can make men crawl to her. But she subs for me. Her ass marks real sweet. I may be moving in with her, what do you think of that?”
I think I hate you, she thought, though the emotion scared her.
“W—will I see you again?”
He spanked her as he fucked her. “Is that all you care about? Getting your little cunt serviced?”
“N—no, that’s not it...”
“You’re a fucking whore, Liandra!”
“Yesss,” she hissed. “Oh, god, I need to come.”
“You don’t deserve it, slut.” Rave pulled his cock out of her hole. “I’ll show you what you’re worth.”
She felt the spray of his semen over her ass and back. A perfect match to the coating on her chest. Tears formed in her eyes. “I—is this goodbye?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Rave padded to the bathroom. She heard the tinkle of his pee. Something he’d always threatened, teased her about was peeing on her. The idea revolted her...and aroused her. It was part of his power trip. Of all the things she’d been through with him, she’d never imagined him leaving her, not really.
“Rave, please, can we discuss this.” She stood meekly in the doorway watching him.
He shook his dick out and flushed. “Jeezus, Lee, you look like hell.”
The water rushed down the bowl, like her life. She went to him. “Master, I’m sorry...”
“Get off me.” He pushed her away and went to get dressed.
She closed the bathroom door behind her, seeking to save a scrap of her pride.
A few minutes later his hand was on the knob. He was mad. “Did you lock this fucking door, Lee?”
Liandra wiped away the tears and let him in.
He made a fist in her hair. “You don’t learn, do you?”
“I—I didn’t think you cared anymore what I did,” she sniffed petulantly.
“I care all right, little girl. Enough to see you get off.”
“Rave, I don’t want to,” she whined.
He tightened his grip, bringing fresh tears to her eyes, tears of pain. “Did I ask what you want, Lee? I said I want you to get off. Now!”
Humiliated, deprived of normal sex, Liandra commenced to masturbating. One hand, slid between her legs, expert, a finger on her clit, two inside herself. It wasn’t the first time he’d made her do this, like an animal in front of him.
He tightened his grip, sending screaming pain through her scalp. “Use the other hand on the tits.”
Liandra grasped her breast, swollen with need. She wanted it to be his hand, taking, kneading...
“Harder,” he commanded. “Make it hurt.”
She let out a moan.
“Pinch your nipple; a bitch like you deserves pain.”
Liandra squirmed, fire shooting from her pinched nub. It was a lightning zap, straight to her cunt. She pushed herself against her hand, humping.
“Do it, Lee, orgasm.”
She came on command, her body bowed. He was yanking her up on her tiptoes. She shuddered, juices pouring from her swollen lips. Her clitoris went off like a tiny rocket. “R—rave,” she gasped.
He let her go as the final waves washed over her. She collapsed, dead weight at his feet, like a marionette abandoned by its user.
She clung to his legs. “P—please, don’t leave me.”
Rave kicked her away. “You’re pathetic, Lee. No wonder you’re not married.”
He left her balled up on the floor sobbing. He was kind enough to close the front door behind him and that was about it.
Some time later, close to dawn, she went out to the kitchen to clean up. She rinsed out the egg pan and the plate and gathered up Rave’s beer cans. He’d left the television on and spilt beer on the living room rug. She wiped the stain on hands and knees.
There had to be a better way.
She deserved more, didn’t she?
Somewhere in the back of her brain she heard laughing.
It was her father’s voice, as always.
Outside the window, the sun was peeking in.
One good thing, at least she wouldn’t have to go to sleep tonight and have any more nightmares about her father.
CHAPTER TWO
Liandra was determined to go straight to the top. No matter what the others said.
“It’s insane,” growled Phil Caputo, the construction boss, short, grizzly and tough as nails. “Only our most experienced iron workers go that high—we’re talking exposed girders, two ton swinging beams, instant decapitation, and that’s if you’re lucky.”
“There’s no way risk management will allow it,” echoed the project manager, the elegant gray haired Tom Atwater. “I’m sorry, Lee. You’ll just have to get your inspiration from the ground.”
Lee shook her head. She was a woman on a mission. She’d been thinking this through all morning. After cleaning the rug, she’d taken a shower and gotten dressed. The cascading water over her sore body had made her feel invigorated...like a survivor. She wasn’t sure what had brought on the change. Maybe it was facing her worst fear of being alone again after Rave.
So much of her life lately had been consumed by serving him, pleasing him, putting him off. He’d done his best to rip her heart out and it hadn’t worked. Oh, she was far from over him, but she felt like she had a reprieve—permission, today, to be however she wanted to be. And who knew where that might lead?
Full of
determination, she’d put on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and her work boots and headed out to the construction site of her latest building, determined to live out a childhood fantasy.
Today was the day Liandra was going to stand with the skywalkers, on the tip top of a building under construction.
“Tom, that’s not an option,” she declared. “For either of us. Both our heads will roll if this project isn’t finished and I’m telling you—this is what I need.”
“And I’m telling you this,” Phil glared at Tom, making it man to man. “You let her up there, it’s over my dead body.”
Tom, neat and trim in khakis and a blue oxford, sleeves rolled up, gave a short, clipped sigh. It was as close to flustered as Lee had seen him in two years of working together.
“Lee,” he said, practically pleading. “I just don’t see what this is about. Why do you need to do this so badly?”
It was Lee’s turn to feel the heat. How could she explain about Rave or about the dreams she’d been having since her father’s death a year ago? That night after night she dreamt of being buried alive at the bottom of a black, dark ravine at the hands of her abusive, manically depressive daddy.
“Go and live with your mother,” Herman growled again and again, pushing her into the grave. “You’ve kept her waiting too long.”
“But mama’s dead,” she would cry out, as if that would ever make a difference in dream or reality.
“What do I care?” said her nightmare father. “You think you are any good to the living?”
“But I’m an architect,” she would try and say. “I went to school, like you.”
“What have you made that’s important?” came the jeering reply. “More towers for the rich?”
And then he would start shoveling; a scoop of dirt for every one of her years on the earth.
One to thirty three. A fresh attack, a fresh wound with every spadeful. What good are you? No grandchildren for me. No legacy. Nothing designed for the betterment of mankind. No libraries, no schools, no parks...
Always with the parks. Herman Burkette had studied with Otto Lansman, a protégé of the great Frederick Law Olmstead himself. Designer of cities, green expanses, vast living spans of posterity.
Six nights Liandra had been living with this, waking up screaming, her skin cold and clammy. She would find herself, sitting bolt upright. Refocusing her eyes, she would immediately stare at the telephone in terror, looking for the light that might indicate a message from him...
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