by Lee Taylor
She wasn't a young woman, judging by the love handles around her ribs and the slight curve of her spine, but the swell of her breasts spilling out of the burlesque style bra she wore suggested big tits.
He had a notion to command she be turned so he could see them. He loved big boobs.
Get a grip!
Anonymity was important to him, and no doubt to her.
Frank explained to J that he'd instructed M in the use of the flogger. Michael was tempted to reassure her that Frank had actually demonstrated on him. He knew firsthand the discomfort she might feel, though he didn't intend to put as much force behind his strokes as Frank had with him--touch of sadism there? He'd experienced the apprehension and humiliation of being cuffed to a Cross.
He thought better of revealing his emotions. It wasn't Dom-like behaviour.
Stick to the role.
His discomfort in the crotch area intensified when he danced the ends of the flogger across J's shoulders and back. Gooseflesh erupted on her skin and her butt cheeks twitched. He had a feeling she was trying hard not to giggle. What did a Dom do if his Sub giggled?
After a dozen or so strokes, he had to pause to catch his breath, lift his mask, and wipe the sweat from his face. He asked her if she was okay. Frank frowned. He supposed that too was un-Domlike, but he felt better when she replied huskily, "Fine, Sir."
He hadn't thought being called Sir would do anything for him but he was wrong. It was a turn on, especially uttered by such a sultry voice. And she'd a faint trace of an accent that somehow made it more sensual.
He resumed his tickling of her shoulders, almost ejaculating when she moaned.
Fuck! What to do now?
Frank arched his brows, as if to say, "You're in charge. Did you give her permission to moan?"
Michael clenched his jaw. "I didn't say you could moan, J."
Frank smiled his approval.
Michael flicked two strokes across J's back with more force than he intended. To make up for it, he tickled her bum with the flogger. "That was punishment for moaning without permission," he said in the best Dom voice he could muster.
The aroma of female arousal wafted into his nostrils. His punishment had aroused her. He puffed out his chest. This was okay.
Frank pointed to a furry pad on a freestanding shelving unit that resembled an upended coffin built for a fat dwarf. Michael curled the flogger around the back of his neck to free his hands, and picked up the pad. He put a hand on J's shoulder, suddenly consumed with an urge to rain kisses on her reddened back. But he'd been warned about touching of an overly sexual nature with a Sub he didn't know. Unless she gave permission.
Keeping his hand on her shoulder, he ran the fluffy pad over her back. She inhaled deeply and threw back her head. He put the pad down, retrieved the flogger from around his neck, and flicked it hard against her bottom. She flinched, but didn't cry out.
Good little Subbie.
"I didn't say you could raise your head, J."
"Sorry, Sir."
Michael's new found confidence plummeted when Frank suggested the crop. Bullshit! He hadn't practised with a crop. What was the guy thinking?
Marjorie came to stand by his side. "She'll go for it. Mark my words. Frank knows what he's doing."
"I'd like the crop, please, Sir."
Michael flexed his sweaty grip on the flogger's handle, resisting the instinct to ask her if she was sure, because he hadn't actually used a crop before. He swallowed hard. "That's my girl."
He put down the flogger and wiped his hands with the towel Marjorie handed him with a knowing wink.
Frank brought the crop.
Michael's face must have betrayed his uncertainty. Frank frowned. He motioned Michael to the back of the room and cupped his hand to Michael's ear. "Use your instincts. They're good. She's enjoying it. She's close to orgasm, but you don't want that--yet. I'll get Marjorie to clear the room."
Michael nodded. She wasn't the only one close to coming. His next move should be to try to slow things down. He strode forward and flicked the leather of the crop against her bottom. He felt the sting in his hands. J flinched and shivered. A red mark blossomed where he'd hit her. Blood rushed to his groin. He may have delayed her orgasm but he'd aggravated his own discomfort.
~~~
Jessie rode a roller coaster of conflicting emotions. One moment desire fled with the sting of the crop on her bum, the next it returned as M teased her shoulders and back.
M tapped one shoulder, then the other, gently, tantalizingly, over and over. The flogger followed suit, stinging her back and bum, but it was a pleasant, warm sting, soothed by the soft furry thing again.
She teetered on the edge of an orgasm. Should she ask permission, or concentrate on something else? There would no doubt be punishment for coming without permission.
She'd never ask.
"Please sir, I need to come."
The treacherous words caused her clit to spasm.
To her dismay, Frank reappeared. "How about one sweet kiss from the cane and then--"
She nodded, blinking away tears.
"Let M know what you want."
She inhaled deeply. "Please sir, may I have the cane?"
M said nothing.
There was an interminable pause before the cane thwacked against her bottom. She squirmed with the pain--real pain this time, but it didn't dampen her arousal.
She tensed when a sweaty male chest leaned against her back, the hair tickling her tingly skin. M's body felt firm, well-muscled--a younger man. Leather squeaked against leather as hard thighs pressed against her. M lay his hands atop hers, interlacing their fingers. He was spread-eagled over her, his citrusy cologne filling her nostrils. She was completely protected, cherished, sheltered.
Her temperature shot up ten degrees.
A very hard cock straining against leather pushed against her bare butt cheeks.
Warm breath tickled her ear. "Do you want to come, J?"
Would she be able to speak? "Yes, sir, I want to come."
He stroked his fingers over the backs of her hands. "Do you want my fingers?"
She wanted to scream, "No I want that hard cock in me," but even in the haze of arousal she remembered that the Club's rules didn't allow that kind of penetration, at least not in public areas. She'd have to be content with a gloved finger.
"Please, sir, I want your finger in me."
The warm body went away. She felt strangely abandoned until M put his hand on her sore bum. Something hard and thick entered her vagina from behind, thrusting deep, in and out, in and out.
A feral groan emerged from her throat. She had to moan, punishment be damned.
M's ragged breath tickled the small of her back.
She stuck out her bottom, pulling against the restraints. "Deeper, Sir, deeper. Oh, oh, yesssss! Yessss!"
She flew apart, falling, falling, screaming, breathless, choking. If only she could clamp her legs on whatever was giving her such pleasure--hold it there forever.
She floated back to Earth, free of the Cross, cradled in someone's arms, wrapped in a soft blanket. She licked her lips, feeling like a long lost child who's just been found.
She kept her eyes tight shut. Better to stay floating in euphoria than to see the man who'd given her such a mind-blowing orgasm. She might be disappointed.
"Good girl. But we'll have to work on a little less screaming next time."
She opened her mouth to reply, but what to say? Her mind refused to form coherent thoughts. Lethargy swept over her.
As if she was ever going to do this again.
~~~
"She's fallen asleep."
Marjorie's whisper jolted Michael back from gazing at the hidden face of the woman he held. He'd been on the verge of tearing off the mask, ready to apologise for his inane remark about screaming.
He tried to swallow, but his arousal had him cross-eyed. No woman had ever flown apart for him the way this unknown Sub had. Being a Dom felt good. H
e'd definitely brought her pleasure. But maybe she was a woman who had orgasms at the drop of a hat. "You're sure she hasn't passed out?"
Frank patted his shoulder. "No, man, you rocked her world. She's in La-La Land. Let me take her."
Michael tightened his hold, feeling very possessive. "No, she's my Sub."
Frank braced his stubby legs, his expression serious. "Hold on. This is her first experience as a participant. She may never come back. You can't claim her yet. These things take time. She has to go to the aftercare lounge, and I'd hazard a guess you need to ease your discomfort too."
Michael bristled, feeling foolish. Why was he being so confrontational? Frank was right, but he just didn't want to let her go. He couldn't understand it. She wasn't young, possibly his age. Hadn't he made up his mind he wanted a younger woman?
He handed J over to Frank, instantly missing the warmth of her body. As he watched the incongruous Caped Crusader carry her out, it dawned on him that he still wore the plastic glove he'd used--compulsory for all body cavity penetrations. God! That sounded so clinical.
He almost came in his pants when the aroma of female juices drifted into his nostrils. He ripped off the glove, throwing it in the trash as he shoved open the door to one of the tastefully decorated cubicles designed for the private release of pressing needs.
He barely had time to shrug off the leather vest and shove his pants down to his knees. He fisted his hand around his cock, pumping only twice before his body erupted. He leaned one hand against the wall, gasping as euphoric sensations gripped him.
His legs trembled. He was soaked in sweat. Taking in great gulps of air, he looked up at the mirror in front of him.
Thoughtful, but not needed on this occasion.
He grinned ruefully--he still wore his mask. He straightened, tearing off the stupid disguise. Good thing J hadn't opened her eyes. Finding herself in the arms of Tiger Man might have scared her to death.
And if she saw him now, his pants around his ankles, his cock still hard, gasping for breath after the best fucking orgasm he'd had in many a year--well.
But he'd been right about the tits.
PART ONE
Two months earlier
CHAPTER ONE
A poke in the ribs from his boss's elbow got Michael Atherton's attention. "She might as well be naked. I know it's unseasonably warm for February, and Victoria is the only subtropical city in Canada, but still."
Michael had been staring out the third floor window of Jim Strand's office in the government building on Blanshard Street. Late afternoon congestion had pedestrians weaving in and out of gridlock at the busy downtown intersection below, but in his mind's eye Michael saw only the tormented face of the woman he'd helped rescue earlier that day.
He followed the line of Jim's nod, wondering what had caught the interest of his normally quiet colleague. His eyes settled on a girl with spiky orange hair. She had her almost bare back to them, waiting for the green light. The frayed edges of skimpy white shorts riding up her bum formed a half moon over her exposed butt cheeks. She was talking animatedly with a grubby youth holding the short leash of a lean pit-bull.
When the light changed to green she turned around and hurried to cross, perky breasts bobbing up and down, threatening to spill out of the barely-there triangles of a bikini top. Red combat boots completed the outfit. Seemingly oblivious to the annoyance of other pedestrians battered by the oversized Old Navy shopping bag she gripped in one hand, she continued her conversation with the young man.
Michael shrugged. "Does nothing for me, I'm sorry to say. But I love the boots."
In reality, he wasn't sorry. He could guess what was going through Jim's mind as he stared open mouthed, but the young girl's tits did little for him. He was a man with a lifetime of sexual experience, some mediocre, some good, some fucking great, though it had been a while since the latter. He didn't need little girls. What he did need, he wasn't sure.
Jim chuckled as he moved away from the window to slouch in the ergonomic chair behind his desk. He motioned Michael to the seat facing him. "Can't blame a guy for looking, though, eh?"
"Guess not," Michael replied, wondering what Jim's sweet wife, Maureen would think of her husband's remark.
Jim leaned back in his chair. "You seem down, old friend. Divorce not agreeing with you?"
Michael rested his ankle atop his knee, plucking at non-existent lint on his grey wool slacks. It was true he'd been restless since his divorce. Before that, even. But living apart from Linda was easier than living with her.
Much as he respected Jim as an old friend and the man to whom he reported, he didn't want to get into a discussion about his love life. He shook his head. "No, I'm just thinking about today's case," he said, his usually deep voice sounding raspy even to himself. "When I was a police officer, I saw some terrible things, but never anything like today's events."
Jim, head of the Seniors' Directorate of the British Columbia Ministry of Health, retrieved a laptop from the drawer of his desk. "This just takes a minute to boot up. I'll make brief notes from your report."
Michael scratched his scalp, his mind wandering into meaningless thoughts of how fortunate he was to still have a full head of hair, unlike Jim. He should stop worrying about the grey. The buzz was that many women found silver attractive.
Jim's tie--sporting faint traces of whatever he'd had for lunch--slipped to one side as he leaned forward to type in his password. One shirt button had popped out of its buttonhole; the rest held on like shipwreck survivors clinging to a raft.
Michael was tempted to remind his friend he needed to watch his weight.
Jim straightened his tie to cover the gaping shirt as if sensing Michael's censure. "I know, I know, I'm getting fat."
Jim had guessed his thoughts. "Believe me, a heart attack is a wake-up call. If you want to age well, you should eat right and exercise regularly." He thumped his rock hard abs. "It's paid off for me--along with the meds."
Jim smiled patiently, twirling a pen between his fingers. "You sound like my wife. We can't all look like Arnold."
Michael winced at that, but wouldn't apologise for his lean, well-muscled body. He'd never been fitter. "My cardiologist tells me I have the heart of a thirty year old."
He reminded himself he had to stop saying that. People were getting tired of hearing it.
Jim's phone rang. He rolled his eyes. "I asked Sylvia to hold my calls. Must be important."
Michael nodded, content to wait.
He glanced back at the window. His new erotic urges and desires were unsettling. A Dominant male needed a Submissive female, but how to find the right one? What kind of Submissive did he want? Would a girl like the one in the street fill the bill? The idea didn't appeal one little bit, though his fantasies tended towards younger women.
He'd known fellow police officers who'd had the guts to come out of the closet, only to be shunned by their heterosexual friends. He'd been as judgmental as anyone. Imagine the reaction if he announced, "Hey, by the way, fellas, I use my cuffs to bind women to my bed, then I blindfold them, and--"
Homosexuality was becoming more acceptable in the mainstream, but kink was still looked upon as an aberration. Coming out as a Dominant wasn't about who you loved, but how you loved.
He'd read articles on the internet about men and women who were 24/7 Doms, but he wanted a woman with character and personality, not a slave who feared him, whose every minute he'd be expected to control. That sounded exhausting, and not a whole lot of fun.
He absently wondered what Jim's reaction would be if he knew his colleague had begun frequenting Scallywags. But then he wasn't totally sure why he'd sought out such a place. He was repulsed by the idea of hurting a woman. Inflicting pain wasn't in his nature. Scallywags provided an opportunity to learn about all kinds of kink "hands-on", so to speak. The club gave lessons in the shit. Who knew?
Jim coughed. "We can go over your report tomorrow if you prefer."
Michael hadn
't realized Jim had ended his call. He straightened in the chair, his cock suddenly losing interest in the semi hard erection that thoughts of the fetish club had brought on. He coughed, putting both feet on the carpet. "Yeah, let's get this over with."
Jim chuckled. "Then you'll have to enter the particulars in the computer before you leave."
Michael grimaced. Personal online research was one thing, data entry of government paperwork another. "Not my favorite part of the job."
Jim shrugged. "Hey man, what'd you expect? You have a contract as a private agent to look into allegations of elder abuse. Government is synonymous with documentation."
As an ex-cop Michael knew all about paperwork, but he'd retired from the police force after his heart attack. He wanted control of his life, including seemingly trivial things like letting his hair grow longer after years of crew cuts. He'd tried a few avenues of private investigation work, but thwarting lowlifes who preyed on vulnerable seniors had brought him the most satisfaction.
His father had struggled through ten years of declining health before his death. Michael knew the frustrations and challenges associated with caring for a bedridden loved one. He hadn't been a perfect son, but would never have--
He dragged his mind away from the painful memories.
"Before I forget," Jim said as Michael was about to begin. "I meant to ask how your mom's doing?"
What to say? "Going strong, spry, healthy, eighty years old now. She still thinks she's an opera singer. I try to visit her at Beckley Lodge at least once a week, though she doesn't know me. I'm one of the diva's many adoring fans as far as she's concerned. Maybe that started when I brought roses on my visits."
It boggled his mind that Maria Atherton couldn't remember her own children, yet knew the lyrics of Italian arias. She'd grown up in Naples, but had lived in Canada for sixty-five years.
"Unfortunately, she rarely hits a note and can't carry a tune. But she's happy."