Own Me Wholly!

by Reese Gabriel

  Brian's beast.

  Our beast.

  He shifts his weight, leaning on my shoulders. I take over the motions of my mouth, in and out with uncompromising speed. I must satisfy him. I must satisfy myself. I must drink.

  The semen comes out thick and warm, I gulp the first spurt just in time for the second. It goes down smooth, my eyes are closed and I'm drifting, everything in sync, my hands reach around to grab his ass cheeks, tender, possessive. It's a hell of a risk on my part, ever showing a man I like him. I can please and Thomas made sure I never failed, but I am terrible at initiating.

  Thomas wanted me to work on that.

  Do you think he ever intended that would come with his own son?

  Why not? It always came down to that for Thomas. If something seemed impossible, if you could show it on paper even, he would just shrug and say why not. If you could dream it then why not?

  His hand strokes my hair as he vacates my mouth. “Lick me clean, baby."

  I am so weak and empty without him jammed inside me. I lap with my tongue, just to recapture a little. How soon is it going to be until he's hard again?

  "Come here, baby.” He wants me to get up, he wants to kiss and hold me again.

  I literally cannot move. I lay my head against his thigh so he knows this isn't stubbornness.

  Brian's tenderness chokes me up. He literally scoops me up into his arms, stronger and more capable arms than I realized, and carries me to the car.

  He sets me down to open the passenger door for me and that's when I kiss him, probing, questioning, in a most female way. I want to provoke a response and I do.

  He kisses the life out of me.

  "Don't start things you can't finish,” he warns.

  "You are one to talk."

  He comes down hard, a swat to my ass. I gush.

  Is he really strong enough to hold onto me? Do I want him to?

  I back away, teasing, playing, testing.

  One hand restrains my wrist. He lifts my hand in the air. It might as well be a steel cuff.

  He moves his other hand to my pussy. We're about six inches apart. I squirm, the intensity too much on my clitoris.

  "No,” he says as I try and interfere with my free hand. “Let me do what I want."

  My arm drops to my side. Restrained by his will.

  Pleasure courses through me; I am being dominated.

  "You can't come until I say."

  Oh, fuck; he was onto that again.

  "Brian...” I bite my tongue, I whimper.

  "Hold still."

  I want to cry. I can't control this—I'm making myself so frigging helpless. I am so slick, I am drenched, he's working me, working me hard, right to the limit and holding me...

  "Want to stop, Caroline?"

  "No, I want more,” I gasp. “Please."

  He chuckles.

  And then he stops anyway.

  I am left spinning, hanging.

  I swallow any vestiges of pride. “Brian, I really need an orgasm..."

  "We'll see.” He puts his fingers to my lips. “How the day goes."

  I want to bite them off. I don't, I suckle, I can't help it, my eyes are slits, my mouth is an offertory, I want to be good, I want to earn my pleasure.

  His little fuck slut.

  Brian dries his fingers on my body. His touch is excruciating. “I don't know ... if I can take this,” I shiver.

  My chin is between his thumb and forefinger. The forefinger that has just owned my pussy. “Then end it. Say ‘dirt.’ And end it."

  He's not fighting fair. I can end anything out here.

  "May I get dressed?” I say instead, signaling that I will stay in slave mode.

  I hang on the motions of his lips. Desperate for his next order. Got to keep moving, before I fall apart.

  "You can put on your dress, not the underwear. And no shoes and stockings."

  A smile wafts over my face, split second, heading north or east. What direction would heaven be anyway—if it is a real place?

  "What?"

  "It's something from the past,” I shake my head.

  I don't want to hurt Brian. I don't want to hurt anyone.

  Life did this to me. Can't blame people.

  "Tell me."

  "I can't."

  "You will."

  "Your father and I came to a grove like this one time, and we got really into it, and I lost my shoe somehow. We couldn't find it for like half an hour, oh, god, it was ridiculous.” I put my hand over my mouth.

  I laugh and then break down into tears.

  Brian is there.

  Doesn't say a word.

  "I ... miss ... him..."

  "I do, too, angel. But not like you. I didn't know him that well. I guess ... I guess that makes me a little mad, a little jealous of you."

  I sniffle, as he strokes my hair. “Why do you call me angel?” I ask him. “I'm anything but."

  "You're my angel because you saved me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When I saw you,” he says. “I knew I could touch Thomas through you. I needed that, still do."

  I try and kneel down before him again.

  He keeps me on my feet.

  "I want to pleasure you again,” I say shyly.

  "I know, angel, but you're not in charge.” It's a soft reminder, but I feel it close over me ... like iron bars.

  "Yes, Sir,” I say, not at all sure what that means, if the word is right or what, we don't have the history and what the hell is the context anymore? Where does play leave off, reality begin?

  Is this our addiction of choice, I wonder? Being lost in the sensations of BDSM, Master slave—the power dynamic.

  Thomas visited here, but he was moderate.

  Moderate in everything in the end. An iron will.

  Apportioned, just what each person needed from him.

  "Brian, may I do something else?"

  "What, angel?"

  "Play,” my voice chokes. Though the tears.

  He smiles, understanding. I watch him take his clothes off.

  "In the dirt,” he finishes my thought.

  "Yesss..."

  We get dirty indeed, covered in earth, covered in heaven and covered in hell. Thomas’ children, two of them at any rate, one boy, one girl, one by blood and one by grace ... his grace. He will always shine on me, god in heaven, with my apologies to the religious. God in heaven, and Brian his instrument, iron rod, cruel biter at my pride, enforcer of my boundaries which only imprison me. But we are one underneath. How long have you known that, Thomas? How long did you walk the Earth planning to bring us together? You planned everything, I think, even your own failure and pain just to show something greater in the end, my beloved higher power. Sorry if this isn't more spiritual, but I'm not cut that way, I need my gods concrete, I need my lessons on the ass, I need my rewards in the now, hot and heavy. Caroline needs pain ... and love ... and discipline.

  And she is in charge of them.

  CHAPTER VI

  Brian's hand is up under my black dress, between my legs as we drive back to Orlando. I'm trying so hard to keep still, to be cool, but the very fact that he is so casual is driving me wild.

  And the more he ignores me, treating me like an object, already had, set aside, taken for granted, the more I need.

  I keep looking at his lap, praying for an erection. I'm not allowed to touch, not allowed to initiate, he's made that clear. If sex is to happen I will know. Because he will bring it to me, give it to me.

  I wish I could have an orgasm, not that it would matter much. With Brian it's like a constant buzz, the sex is right there on the surface. I am an addict all right.

  Just hope we know what we're doing. Still finding dirt on me I missed when cleaning up. I have mud stains and come stains from when he came again, standing over me, all over my breasts, letting me smear in the warm, thick jets of his ejaculation. Me, on my back, sun shining through him, sky enveloping. Clouds like wisps, portending ... more
questions.

  Where are we going? Now that the epiphany in the grove is passed ... seriously, folks.

  Brian takes his fingers from me. Oh, hell, I am moving too much again.

  "Brian, stop..."

  (Sigh)

  He takes just the right amount of skin between his fingers to pinch. It's the soft flesh of my inner thigh. He makes it hurt right off, a quick burn. To maintain the intensity, he twists, right and left.

  This is his new torture he's introduced since we left the grove.

  The only way to make it stop I have learned is to relax my muscles, to settle my ass down, to make my pussy the passive hole it's supposed to be.

  This is called cunt training. Removing my own will, pesky little impediment that it is, from the program I am affectionately dubbing Operation Playground Caroline.

  In time I will run to him, offering up said pussy, ass, mouth, breasts for whatever he feels in the mood for, pleasant, unpleasant or downright humiliating.

  He tells me not to sweat getting it wrong; the battle is most of the fun.

  I am so relieved.

  I moan ... I haven't been forbidden to do that. The pain is blending with the need ... to be touched.

  At some point he ceases pinching.

  I have been a good girl.

  He hooks himself back in place. Brian's official finger rest between my thighs.

  I curl my bare toes into the carpet. “Brian I need to come..."

  "You can hold it until we get there."

  "I can't..."

  "Stop whining."

  "I'm not whining...” The thing is it's impossible not to sound whiny when you are this much behind the eight ball.

  His fingers go up to my mouth. I dutifully lick.

  My world collapses as his hand goes ever so far away to the steering wheel.

  I bite my lip.

  "Leave them,” he says, barely glancing at me as I try and close my legs.

  "Why?” I snap. “It's not like you want anything that's down there."

  "What I do with my pussy,” he informs me. “Is none of your concern."

  I make a noise. Letting him know I am thoroughly, so totally over him and all his shit.

  "I would like you to suck my cock,” he announces, unzipping.

  "Again? How about a little equal time?"

  "A slave's greatest pleasure is her master,” he gives me a boyish grin. “Besides you don't want me to suffer over here all worked up do you? All hot and bothered."

  He's massaging his cock through his pants.

  I have an idea.

  Brian would probably consider it a brat idea but I would say it's just getting even.

  Thomas used to explain to me about the whole brat thing in submissive psychology. The female has this side of her that has to act out that wants to have the male come down on her, for reassurance. It's the submissive's pay off and a dominant has to handle it just right. Thomas thought there were better ways to get attention and when I wanted to be a brat he told me to just tell him so he could respond accordingly.

  "Thomas, I feel bratty,” and then he would say, “okay, close the door,” or “go and reserve us a hotel room for the afternoon."

  "Now where were we,” he'd say when we finally got down to it and we would slip right into our roles nice as can be.

  "I was telling you how bad I've been,” I would grin and make up something because I just never would do anything to interfere with his business or cause him difficulty.

  "You have?” That eyebrow would go up and I would get warm and tingly and feel soooo good, the way he got into it, the way he made it feel all right, the way he could make it light and amusing at the same time it was so passionate and dramatic.

  "Yep. I didn't collect the rent from Jane this month."

  That was an inside joke because Jane the psychologist doesn't pay her rent, at least not this month's rent. She blames it on insurance that is always six months behind in paying her billable hours with clients.

  "I know this makes for tension,” she will say. “And I want us to deal with that."

  Like Thomas needs counseling for wanting the money he needs from her to pay his own freaking mortgage on the building her butt gets to park in.

  Why doesn't she sell her Jaguar? That would be a nice way to deal.

  Anyhow, Thomas will try not to laugh. “You didn't, baby girl? Well how does that make you feel?"

  "Like a spanking,” I grin and I'll squeal as he takes hold of me and tickles me all the way to the bed. I'm seventeen again, and I'm twenty and thirty and I am every woman in the world, all the good things he's ever seen in any of us females as he turns me over and pinkens my bottom—just pinkens it, mind you. And then, because he can never hold out, we move into the sex and it's all ‘Yes, Sir,’ as he slides that beautiful, sculpted cock, into me, a work of art.

  I watch Brian take his cock out of his pants now.

  You've got to be kidding. A man has to woo a woman to his cock, not hold it like a sausage. Okay, so my mouth is watering and yes, I would not mind getting down there, my head in his lap just pleasuring and obeying, but there is a principle at stake.

  Which brings me back to my idea. The soda cup in the beverage holder.

  It's half full. Ice melted. Bearing the logo of a popular convenience chain.

  How sweet is this going to be, to borrow an expression from Erin.

  He never sees it coming. I take off the top and spill the contents, sticky and cola dark all over his pants.

  "There, did that cool you off?"

  Brian yelps and squirms. He wants to get mad but I start laughing. It only gets worse when he tries to slap my thigh. He yelps as a piece of ice gets down underneath him and somehow ends up in his butt crack.

  "Oh, Brian, I'm sorry."

  He eventually grips the wheel, steaming, having given up on me and his clothes. “Your apology would be a lot more convincing if you weren't in hysterics."

  I see some paper napkins in the pocket by my door. I try to use them to clean him up.

  He stops me. “That isn't how bad slave girls fix their messes, is it?"

  The laughter has loosened me up. “No, Master."

  "What do you need to do, girl?” he puts out the back of his hand, stained.

  "Use my tongue,” I say.

  I lick his skin, sweet and sticky. I suck each finger. I'm worked up and hornier than ever but I'm stuck. His cock is covered in soda. I lap at it, running my tongue up and down. Until the soda taste is gone and there is nothing left but the pungent taste of male.

  He strokes my hair, talking to me. It's like playing with the outside and the inside of my head at once. “You belong down there, girl, don't you? You fight me and you only make it worse on yourself."

  "Yes, Master...” I kiss his balls.

  "I want my pants clean, too."

  I apply my tongue to the fabric. His hand goes to the back of my neck. “You can suck me, but I'm not going to come again. I want to be nice and charged up for when we get to your place. We're going to play some new games."

  I moan, wanting to rub my thighs together so bad. I can only imagine what new games he has in mind. I suck him the whole way, bobbing my head up and down, working my jaws until they ache.

  I don't want to stop without permission. I don't want to do anything without permission.

  "You're going to be punished, Caroline,” he tells me. “You're going to be taken down to a whole new level of slavery."

  I'm not sure if he wants me in dread, or what, but I'm more relieved than anything. I want to escape my thoughts, my sadness. I want to be in that other world, where the decisions are made for me, where I am happily along for the ride.

  Sure, you pay for everything in time, but not today.

  I figure the universe owes me that much.

  * * * *

  Nothing much happens, BDSM-wise when we get to my apartment. The mood shifts, as I guess it's bound to in a grief situation. We do crave each other's naked flesh
, however. We cuddle in bed and eventually make love. It is one of those long, languid fucks that makes you lose track of time, no longer caring if it's day or night.

  As some point I go to get out of bed. I think Brian is dozing, but he stirs. “Where are you going?” he mutters.

  "To the kitchen. I'm thirsty."

  "Permission denied,” he mutters. “You can have water from the bathroom."

  I tousle his hair. “Whatever you say, Master Big Ego."

  I sashay off to the kitchen for my orange juice. My heart pounds. Will he try to stop me?

  I flip on the lights and go to the refrigerator. “I thought I told you to be in bed,” I hear him say from the doorway.

  "Omigod,” I jolt. “You scared me."

  "Go back to bed, Caroline."

  "Huh? No. I'm getting orange juice. I am thirsty. Is that against the law?"

  "It is when you come out here without permission."

  "Last I checked my name was on the lease."

  "It's my name going to be imprinted on your ass with my palm."

  "Promises, promises.” I am taunting him, getting a glass, leaning up against the counter on tip toe, deliberately giving him a view of my bare behind.

  I drip with anticipation. He doesn't disappoint. He comes in fast, holds my waist and smacks me hard, again and again, not stopping until I beg for mercy.

  When he gets tired of using his hand, he gets a spatula and starts in all over again. I am groaning by the time he's done. But my thighs are slick and wet from my desire.

  "Don't move,” he orders, leaving me bent over the counter.

  "What are you doing?” I sniffle as he goes into my cupboard.

  He ignores me.

  "Are you looking for something?” I persist.

  "You'll see.” Brian finds a bowl and sets it on the counter. My stomach does a little flip as I see him open the spigot of the orange juice and pour the contents. He fills the bowl half way.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting you your orange juice."

  "What is that, some kind of joke?” I demand as he takes it and sets it down on the floor, right smack in the middle of the linoleum.

  He smiles slantedly. I want to smack it off his face, it is so freaking ... male. “You seem to have a little trouble with cups."

  My mouth hangs open. “You can't be serious."