Incredible as it seems, I viewed this lecture as a sign that we were closer, more entangled than ever—and in a new, deeper and more intimate way. But I did believe that was true. In my mind, it brought me closer to him and essentially gave me more power.
That is a paradox, I know, especially since he was seizing from me any last vestige of power that I was still trying to claim.
But I understood the paradox in my gut, if not my brain. Never in the months of our arrangement had he spoken to me with such attention, such intensity, and yes, such passion. Hot passion. This was coming from his loins, not his calculating mind. I swear his cock was driving him as much as my cunt had driven me every day since that first email. And this was the difference, the change. All that Preston Lockhart was—the haughty executive with the twisted sexual inclinations, with the need to control, the need to dominant, to wreak his prurient sadistic vision on a surrendering woman—was at that moment fueled by a sensuously compelling energy I’d never sensed in him before.
I knew why he spoke to me this way. He had to come down on me hard to keep the right balance between us, because there, in the midst of his very pointed comments, there quaking beneath his seemingly unshakable stolid surface—back to that ripple of vulnerability again—I saw that vulnerability shimmering like a mirage between us. He was making these statements to remind me about the difference between master and submissive, because on one level he worried that the barrier would crumble, that I’d see where he was weak, his Achilles heel, where he was empty, where he hurt, places he was unfamiliar with, behaviors that were uncomfortable. We both had a lot at stake. He was right, I’d better not toy with him. If the important barrier between us crumbled, the fantasy would vanish as so much silliness, so much foolish game-playing… and sexual thrill would go with it.
I didn’t completely understand all this while we stood eye to eye in the upper room of that vacant, half-built house—that would take time, distance and thoughtfulness. But my conclusions were confirmed, when, to my utter astonishment, Preston kissed me. His lips moved on me with such breathless tenderness that only love could pour out from me to him. I had never been so profoundly satisfied with anything as I was with that kiss.
He kissed me more, without taking me in his arms, with one hand touching my chin lightly and his other at his side. He wouldn’t siphon off the meaning with a canned romantic clench. It was merely his lips touching mine, pulling at mine a bit, tugging as I surrendered and allowed him to lead. The kiss, and those that followed, lingered like perfectly prepared food lingers with a delicious aftertaste for hours, in sensuous reminder of the feast. This was that feeds the soul. He fed my soul with those kisses, and in the process, thoroughly frightened me.
The kisses beginning to end were very Preston. Preston perfect.
When he backed off, my head was still inclined a bit, and my lips were parted with an anxious unwillingness to sever the mood. Would he ever do that again? Though I begged him silently to return, I knew he was finished. As much as I wanted those seconds to linger, if I’d devised it myself, I couldn’t have added anything to make the moment better. Some things don’t get better being bigger or more than what they are. This was one.
The remaining ropes fell silently away as Preston stripped them from me with very little effort.
“Your clothes are downstairs. Go get dressed,” he told me quietly.
I padded down the stairs, swept up in an aura I wanted to relish forever.
“Well, now, look at you,” I heard Susan’s voice cut sarcastically through my happy musings. I looked her way, as she puffed on a half-finished cigarette, as its ash fluttered in the air and settled to the floor. Hearing her voice, my insides clenched as if someone had just socked me in the solar plexus.
“Let me see your ass,” she said.
I wasn’t sure how to answer her, but being so completely witless and submissive, I let her look at the marks she’d made on my behind. Even when she asked me to bend over so she could inspect me further, I didn’t hesitate.
“I thought I told you to get dressed, Skye,” I heard Preston as he was coming down the stairs with his gear in hand.
“Sorry, sir.” I shot up and scrambled to my pile of clothes. While I hurriedly put them on, Preston spoke to Susan.
“You have places to go?” he asked her.
“I thought we could have lunch,” she locked her arm under his and looked up a little plaintively.
“Sounds good. I have to drop Skye at the office.” He looked at me. “You ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
I sat beside him as we rode back to the office, with Susan following in her car.
We rode in silence for a time, until my curiosity got the better of me, and timidly asked, “So you have no interest in Susan?”
“Interested in Susan? No. She’s no more than a friend. Oh, we tried once, but the relationship was pretty laughable.” He looked toward me, chuckling softly, “But then she was certainly good for baiting you. I couldn’t have planned the whole incident better if I’d tried.”
“No, I suppose he couldn’t.”
“Handle your jealousy, Skye.”
“Yes, sir.”
When me dropped me off, I rushed into the building, while Susan parked in the company garage and took my place next to Preston.
Chapter Twelve
Shortly after my punishment in the half-built house, Preston moved my desk out of research into an office adjoining his. I became his personal assistant and they hired a new girl for my research position. This new job assignment shocked me, since I never had any aspirations for working outside of my perfectly comfortable, anonymous niche. All this was done without my being consulted. And yet, by that time, I was letting things happen to me, rather than making them happen.
This was obviously a behavior new for me. I mindlessly gave up any thought of free will, unable to shake the indisputable hold my master had on my behavior and my thoughts. This all seemed perfectly rational, not at all silly, or insane.
The new working arrangement brought me to his side hourly, not daily, as I assisted him in a hundred tasks, none of which allowed me the freedom of my research position. Within days, I became fully entangled in his issues, his job, his intentions for the agency, knowing his schedule by heart and doing everything I was told in order to make his day go smoothly.
While we were working, he rarely made mention of our private relationship, and yet it hung at the periphery like a ghost, hauntingly intruding in the tone of his voice, the brush of his hand against my body and the way he dominated every minute with his needs. I stopped short of asking permission to go to the bathroom, but otherwise I was his to use, order, command and instruct.
Although our private world was rarely acknowledged during our hours in the office, it still had an uncanny way of coloring every moment with sexual tension enough to make my belly quake with lust, my pussy wet in anticipation, and my heart leap with the joy of a woman in love. The fact that we were so physically close so often sometimes drove me crazy… and I found myself wanting to flee from him, go back to the safety of my cubicle and hibernate. After a day or two of little but his cool detachment, a territorial hand deliberately grazing my ass cheek had orgasmic powers.
He’d ignore me for days and I’d start to wonder what happened to our personal relationship. Then, suddenly, in the midst of preparing some report, some letter, or compiling facts, figures, whatever the task, he’d say, “Come here.” My body would instantly tremble and I’d move to his side. “Put your hands on the desk.” I’d do as he asked, which meant I would be posed in a right angle to his desk with my ass stuck out. Preston would lift my very short skirt and fool in some intimate way with my genitals, always with a degree of pain, which required me to contain a reckless flood of sexual energy. Sometimes, I orgasmed, if he allowed me to, sometimes not. He commonly ended the brief scenes, giving me a quick spank on the behind, while sending me on my way as if I were a child.
This
wasn’t unlike the many times before, when masturbating in the office was a regular event I surrendered to. However, those occasions were distinctive intrusions in my otherwise busy schedule at the research desk, apt reminders of my role as his submissive. Once my job changed, I needed no occasional reminder of my status. The shift in proximity alone was enough to reminded me of his ownership every minute of my day.
One afternoon, I was crazed with pent-up sexual energy to the point that my raw nerves made me edgy and short. I screwed up a letter, failed to make an important appointment for him, and stumbled through a presentation of information before a small meeting of the associates.
“It doesn’t sound like you prepared for this, Skye,” he quipped at me curtly, when I was unable to answer several questions, and got confused by a question from Ellington Lloyd. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I think we’d better send Skye back to the drawing board on this one.” Men in their position didn’t like wasting time, and even the normally congenial Ellington left with a less than cordial glance at me.
“I’ll need the information by tomorrow,” he reminded Preston, his voice tinged with a frosty edge as he left the office.
“She’ll have it.”
“I’m sure she will,” his stare was telling. I suppose he remembered the time he found me getting punished in Preston’s office.
Seconds after the last agent left, Preston put me on the floor.
“You want to tell me what caused this sudden lapse?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I answered, my speech sounding muffled and distant. I was in a full crouch bent over with my face in the carpet so far that I was practically eating the dusty nap.
With a sharp movement he flipped my skirt up, exposing my naked buttocks. With a whippy little baton in his fist, he whapped my bottom several dozen times.
“Bad answer, Skye.”
“I wish I had a better one.”
Preston didn’t take the comment as I meant it: sincerely.
He thwacked me hard, with that thin bamboo cutting deeply into my behind. I jumped each time the cane hit, and buried my exclamations in the thick pile at my mouth.
“Try again,” he sternly asked.
“I… uh…” The fact was, Preston hadn’t come to my apartment for sex in almost a week. He hadn’t teased me to orgasm in all that time—in fact, he’d teased me twice and left me hanging. It had been all I could do to keep from breaking his first rule of submission … don’t come without permission. But dare I tell him all that?
He thwacked me again, and kept on cutting me with the dreadful bamboo, while coaxing, “An answer, Skye.”
“I… uh…” I was trying to think while the pain in my ass was reaching miserable proportions. “Ouch… uh… sir… I am so damned horny…”
“So damned horny, what?” he finally stopped hitting me.
“I can’t stand myself… you’ve got my nerves, m-my body all tied in knots, sir…”
“So this is my fault?”
“NO, Sir! I mean… I don’t do well with denial… I’m not very good at long term suffering.”
“Well, then, maybe you need a little more training in suffering. How about two weeks at the North Street house?”
I winced in anguish at that thought.
“It will be a sacrifice on my part, but if they can train you to contain yourself with some grace instead of going sideways on me, it would be worth it.”
“Please, sir, I really don’t think that would be necessary.”
“Oh, you’re making the decisions?”
“NO, sir!”
He paced the room, walking around me, no doubt deep in thought, or being silent just to make me suffer more. The sum of his thoughts was more gruesome a result than I could imagine. “Raise your ass and spread your knees wide.”
The position exposed my pubic mound and anal cleft to the extremes, leaving me vulnerable and especially scared. Preston, for his part, lived up to the promise inherent in his last order. With a delivery sure to shock every tattered nerve in my system, he whacked my ass, the cleft, my labia, pussy and every other tender inch of my sex. I gasped aloud because I couldn’t help it. Of all the trials I’d been through with him, this seemed like the worst. Or then, maybe the present moment is always the worst… because time makes the memories of previous punishment fade or turn into an exhilarating, if not faulty, memory. Truth is always very subjective, but worse or not, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but I didn’t.
When he finally stopped hitting me, the awful ache lingered on.
“You’re going to feel this for sometime, Skye. My intention. I hope it will be a useful reminder. Now get up and fix this lousy presentation into something I can present to Ellington. If you have to work all night to get it done, so be it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said as I gingerly rose to my feet. I was a little wobbly, and yes, I winced with every move.
Later in the company bathroom, I wrenched and twisted my body around until I managed to get a quick peek at my wounds, discovering a dozen red welts where the baton had almost broken the skin and there were bruises rising up from underneath. It was three days before the ache in my behind finally disappeared. The old admonishment, you’ll be blistered so hard you won’t sit for a week… is an extreme threat. That much punishment would be genuinely vile. But it certainly seemed that I was half way there that day.
I waited another week before I got any relief. Preston wasn’t about to let me win this battle. That week was rough, but I did much better containing my nervous frustration. I didn’t even hate him. I never understood how this strange, fantastic dynamic we shared turned abuse into a powerful aphrodisiac. But by then, I quit trying to figure it out.
For awhile, after the incident of punishment in his office, Preston came to my apartment regularly at night—although on no particular schedule. As he’d been doing for months already, scenes in bedroom were often urgent quickies, during which I often wouldn’t get off. Increasingly, however, they became more purely intimate moments when I would mellow out in the pleasure Preston offered with a genuine interest in my satisfaction. Then, almost without my realizing, his sexual focus moved from my taking ass to my cunt… from voyeuring my masturbations, to tender, sensuous trysts, making love.
He became more than a master… exchanging cruelty for breathtaking kisses. His skin met mine explosively, and we fucked wildly, with savage abandon. Then later it was obvious to me that we were lovers, wandering about the bed in the dark, silently speaking with our hands, our tongues and tentative gestures of love. I say tentative because we seemed so unsure of the territory we explored.
Sometimes I wanted to push him away because the intimacy created such an awkward tension between us. I think he felt that way, too—sometimes it was days before he came to me again. Yet, when he finally returned, the passion would be as fresh as it had been that first time.
After one very intimate lovemaking, after a lengthy silence, which was common during our late night rendezvous—I can remember our not exchanging more than four words on one occasion—Preston was getting dressed while I sat on the bed contently naked, watching him. He stared back at me and startled me with a surprising announcement, “I want to move you into the spare room in my apartment.” More surprisingly, I hardly flinched when he made his declaration. “It’s a small space, but all you’ll need. My demands on you increase from this point on and I want you readily available.”
Though I’d lost the independence of my lonely Lloyd & Lockhart cubicle, I still had my apartment to cling to. Now I’d lose this too, if he had his way. My repertoire of ready responses rushed forward as my first defensive thought silently screamed that I cut him off right there. Game over! You’ve gone too far! But that was the old Skye.
My move into his executive penthouse went so smoothly that I hardly knew what happened to me—or most of my belongings; I had little say about what traveled with me to my new home or how it was situated. When I finally arrived the servant’s
quarters off the kitchen, I found my bed, my Peruvian comforter, my art scattered about the floor and walls, a dresser, the lively colors I was accustomed to and my clothes stuffed into the small closet. My overstuffed reading chair and lamp were squeezed into one corner, while a washstand and toilet were in the opposite corner behind an Oriental screen. The scene was as wild and eclectic as what I would have designed on my own, which suggested that Preston apparently approved of, or at least respected my personal tastes—as long as they were confined to my room.
The rest of Preston’s penthouse was decorated in subtle tones of tan, and brown and silver, with an occasional splash of deep red, gold or blue. There was no subtlety in the contrasts between us, not in our taste in decorating, nor in our style of emotional expression, nor in our personal temperaments.
Although I took the change with little fuss, once I finally got settled in Preston’s servant’s quarters, a slow invading panic began eroding what peace I’d once had regarding my relationship with my master. It started quietly the day I moved in, as I became not just his live-in mistress, but his personal maid.
The idea of fixing his breakfast, his clothes, his coffee and arranging her personal; schedule probably rattled me more than any of his sexual demands. I didn’t clean the apartment or cook—he had a real maid for that. But I did the things a wife would do and that scared me. More than scared me—terrified me. They brought me closer to his side, closer into his private space, and to vulnerability, his weaknesses, his fears. My panic grew.
I woke up one morning in a cold sweat. Reality was biting my ass—welts from a confrontation with his leather belt laid on my behind the night before, when Preston decided to abuse it; I suppose because he hadn’t in some time and we were both due. It was more than my ass that hurt, however; my eyes and body ached seeing my things around me in my single room, realizing what my life had been reduced to.
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