"I'm very serious, Caroline. I want you down on all fours, with your face in that bowl, lapping like a little kitten."
"No way,” I say, though with my ass burning like it is I am not in a bargaining position. “I changed my mind. I'm not thirsty."
His hand reaches for the spatula. He doesn't need to say a word. I am skating on the thin edge of another whipping. I feel hot and queasy inside. I want to fight, I want to wrestle with things but the other part of me wins out and I go down on to my knees on my own kitchen floor.
His hand is still on the buckle. I regard him, not man, but Master.
"May I tie back my hair?"
"If you have something on you."
I have rubber bands in one of the kitchen drawers. I pull my tousled hair back into a pony tail. My scalp is sore from the hair pulling, though it's something I am sure to ask for again and again.
I drop down to all fours. All I can see is his feet.
"That's it, girl, crawl.” His voice is husky. I want to look up and see if he's aroused. I wait until I get to the bowl and look over my shoulder. He has his cock in his hand.
"Head down,” he orders. “I want slurping."
I do as he tells me. My cunt aches. The juice goes down my throat.
"Good pet,” he praises. “Know what I'm doing."
I can guess.
"I have my cock in my hand. I'm masturbating. That's how much this turns me on. And I know you like it, too. You have this wild side. Come on,” he taunts, “show me. Finish up that juice, get your nose all the way down."
I hear him groan.
I slurp like a good pet. I keep licking at the bowl, not daring to stop until he tells me. I can hear him grunting.
"I'm gonna come,” he says. “All over your back."
"Yes,” I sputter. “Do it, please."
I feel his semen spray on me, on my ass, my back and in my hair. He squeezes out every drop. I feel so incredibly alive.
"Wow, baby.” He yanks me to my feet. His big, sandpaper tongue licks across my face, licking the juice. I spasm deep in my bare pussy. Damn it if I don't have a little tiny orgasm, without even being touched.
There is juice on my breast. He bends his head and consumes it—the juice and the breast. I am in heaven, but I want more.
I hear Thomas telling me to go for it. You can't get what you don't ask for.
"Go down on me?” I whisper. “Please?"
Brian kneels without hesitation. His tongue and mouth know my pussy. They know exactly where to go, like they have been at it a life time.
He works me to fever pitch and then he whispers hot in my ear. “Come, my slut, come for your Master."
I fall against him, shuddering, a silent slow motion scream, invisible weeping, my teeth dug into his shoulder, my crotch exploding, a million mini meltdowns over his hand. Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.
He lets me down easy.
"What are you?” He strokes my hair, hand at the small of my back.
"Your slut."
"What are you going to do for your Master?"
"Obey..."
It's a no brainer at the moment, though it won't last. Never does.
* * * *
Brian carries me from the kitchen, a very sated slave. He cleans me up in the shower and then we go back to bed, clean and dry. I fall instantly to sleep. It's somewhere in this sleep that I have the nightmare.
Thomas is drowning, in a retention pond at one of his own housing developments. I am trying to help him, but there are too many people around, everyone he knows, including Monica. They are all talking about how no one can save him because they have to be one of his registered sex partners, whatever that is.
Monica is telling everyone that she isn't registered in this state.
Brian is there and he hands me my driver's license that he took at the motel. “Read it,” he says.
I look down and see that it's a registered sex partner card and it authorizes me to sleep with Thomas because I am apparently practiced at it. I shake my head at Brian, not wanting Monica to know about this.
"Then you will watch him die,” Brian says.
"It's not fair,” I tell him. “I'm not the one pushed him in."
"But you made him hold all the weight from your past, it's pulling him down like a rock."
I forget about caution and try to help him, but Monica stops me, calling me a whore and demanding I explain myself. I just keep crying about Thomas drowning.
In the end I wake up screaming, in a cold sweat, Brian comforting me.
I am not sure if it's just the dream or the combination of that and the feel of his arms around me, but I come to a decision.
"I need to tell her, Brian."
"Tell who?"
"You know who. I need to tell Monica about Thomas and me."
"You sure you want to do that? At this point in the game?"
"I have to."
"Is this for her?” he asks the same difficult question that is on my mind. “Or for you?"
"Both of us I hope."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Don't let me chicken out."
He gives me a leer and a wink. “That's right up my alley, slave girl."
I roll my eyes. “I should have known better. God, am I always giving you ammunition for dominating me?"
"So far."
"Remind me to stop."
"Don't count on it."
"Didn't think so."
Not that I want him to stop...
CHAPTER VII
A week has passed and I am actually going through with it. I have gotten here, with Brian's help, to Monica's condo and I have told her what I need to about me and her husband, everything.
Monica's not at all where I expected her to be mentally. Her reaction is light years from what I could have predicted.
We are sitting in Thomas’ old den. She's in one of the red leather arm chairs, I'm in the other, she has a pants suit on and I have my familiar jeans and t-shirt.
My bottom is sore. Predictably, I did try and chicken out at the last minute, inducing Brian to give me some incentive. Five blows of his belt. And after that we fucked. The fucking was my idea, to relieve tension.
I wonder if the poor boy knows how badly I am using him.
He doesn't seem to mind, though.
The chairs are turned to face each other, like Point Counter Point. The walls are covered with books. I'm not smoking, although Monica made the offer, pretty graciously, since she doesn't smoke.
The whole thing comes out in a jumble. I forget to stop and breathe at points. Lots of quick stops and starts.
"The thing is,” I say at one point—or remember saying because it all just passes mostly in a blur, “Thomas never ... he never meant it to be this way, I'm pretty sure I forced it, well not force, but I know he must have pitied me and it kind of just got a life of its own ... oh, god, I wish you could have heard him talk about you, this tore him up, Monica, he loved you, do you know how jealous I got—not because I saw the two of us married—yes, I fantasized, but we're too different from each other, we were too different, I mean..."
At a certain point I just ran out of gas, like a plane, I nose dive. Crash land and then ... nothing.
The silence terrifies me. “Monica, please, say something? Hit me, anything."
"You know, it's funny.” She is staring at the bookcase, past my head, the richly bound leather volumes that Thomas found so fascinating and was so proud to own though he never felt worthy of the contents. “I knew for a long time he was unhappy. Didn't have it in him to back out, though. Not that kind of man. ‘Sorry, honey, I outgrew you, let's divorce.’ Not in the cards. With Vicky it was different, she forced his hand and he wasn't in a position to defend himself as husband and father. My answer was to let him go where he wanted, set up a business in Florida. We couldn't afford it. Things were barely afloat in Atlanta. But it was his dream, you know, the dirt and all, and the communities he wanted to see built. You know what I think? I think every
time he put up a house he hoped a couple inside would be happy, happier than he could be. The more houses, the greater the odds.
"I was scared for him, though, a wife knows things. Oh, god I did it all wrong, I knew how to nag him, I tried to show him how helpless he could be so he'd come running home, and every time he didn't, I would just cry, sorry for him, sorry for me. He sent me those flowers, you know, every month. Was that for me or him ... was it for you?"
I look into those pretty eyes, trophy wife eyes. She'll be fine; men will flock to her. She'll always get what she needs; she's made that way. She's like that blood type, what is the one, where you can take from anyone? Thomas, he was the one that could give to anyone.
"For me? Why me?” My own voice sounds like an intrusion in her monologue.
"To reassure you, things were okay in his marriage. You know what Caroline? I am actually relieved to hear all these things. Does that sound crazy?"
"I think I am a real bad person to judge right now."
"Thomas found some peace with you. I didn't meet his needs, you did. You want to play truth time, Caroline? I knew he needed to be dominant. Before he dated me he was with my sister, they played around a little. She talked, like girls do. He tied her up, gave her a spanking. She got off on it but she was intimidated. It was like Chinese food to her, something you order once a month. She was afraid it would turn out to be a staple to Thomas."
I force back a smile.
She should only know about Brian. BDSM is that boy's meat and potatoes, his frigging oxygen.
"I swooped in, he was a catch, and I am not a fool. I knew what his being in my life would mean for my daughters and me. I'm an entrepreneur. He was an opportunity. He signed the deal; it was legal."
"You didn't use him,” I'm quick to say. “He got things from you I couldn't have given. You were this ... force in his life, something that made everything come together. He lived for you. And the girls."
"He should have lived for himself. We all should. But we don't, do we?"
I think about Thomas, always telling me to go for what I want. What is the point of holding back?
"Monica, I've resented you."
This wasn't in my plan book.
"It's mutual,” she replies, without animosity. “And inevitable. The question is, which one of us was the other woman?"
I have to laugh. “Thomas and I used to joke about that."
"So did we,” she surprises me. “You know he wanted an open marriage?"
"Yes ... although I didn't think he ever talked to you."
"He didn't have to. We were married, you know, even if we didn't live together."
"Thomas was born into the wrong world,” I muse. “Don't you think?"
I get a smile out of her. “If ever a man needed a harem."
"Or deserved it,” I added. “He spent his life trying to clean up men's messes. Every time he talked to a woman, befriended her, he was trying to let her know; all males are not assholes."
"Are there any women that good?"
"Present company excluded?"
"We aren't good,” she smiles. “We used him ... mercilessly."
I take issue. “I tried to keep things even with him, though, I thought of him, his needs, constantly. I'm not sure it was all that bad."
"Then why are you here?"
It's my turn to be silent.
"Does it really turn you on,” she asks after a while. “To be dominated?"
"Yes. Sometimes."
"Where do you think that comes from? If I may ask?"
"I have tried to figure that out. Sometimes I think it's my upbringing. The fact that people crossed my signals early on, pain and pleasure and all that boundary stuff. But Thomas ... if you don't mind my saying more about this ... taught me to just embrace it as me. Why is somebody gay? Why do they like chocolate and not vanilla? It's society that starts with the viewpoint that some of our desires are wrong and need to be ‘explained’ as aberration or disorder."
"How does a submissive person keep from being abused?"
"Another thing I wrestle with ... I guess you have to know yourself, be able to draw the limits. It's something someone can help you with but they can't do it for me. If I get a thrill from being hit by a cane and you talk me out of it, aren't you the abuser as opposed to the one who hits me? As long as it's done safely, of course, within reason."
"And you like being hit by canes and all that?"
I laugh at the expression on her face. “I'm not into anything too heavy duty."
"I can't picture Thomas doing things like that."
"Me neither."
"Something I never understood was how Thomas could have normal sex with me—sorry, non-BDSM sex and do all that other stuff with you."
"Some people are bisexual, right? Why can't people like different things with different people?"
She takes a deep breath. “Caroline, I don't think we can keep working together."
"I anticipated that."
Actually, I had expected to be thrown out on my ear or buried under a shelf of books so a simply pink slip isn't bad.
"It's not for the reasons you think. I don't hate you, and I hope you don't hate me. You can see, we can talk and that will always be there between us, but I'm a proud woman, a bitch, frankly. I can't afford to let people close to me; it gives them an awful lot of power. I am going to have to run this business now and when I have my little nervous breakdown, which I am sure is coming, it will have to be in front of strangers. You know too much. The only one who was close enough to see me cry is gone. I don't know if I can ever allow that with another. I have to be hard, I'm sorry. It's a character flaw, I'm sure you know my weaknesses better than me, Thomas probably gave you an earful."
"No, he never talked you down. He didn't see you or anything that way. Everything he saw in you was all about your uniqueness and that made him love you more. And no, I don't hate you. For Thomas’ sake, I wish you happiness."
"For Thomas’ sake I want that for you, too. What will you do with yourself?"
I settle back. “Would you believe I met someone?"
"Brian."
I wince. “He made it a little obvious at the funeral."
"He did me a favor. I couldn't have ridden back with you or anyone—just my daughters."
I nod. “I hope this isn't too weird..."
"Life is weird, Caroline."
"That's an understatement. The thing is ... we ... we will probably run into each other."
"You are dating my children's half sibling,” she acknowledges. “And I don't want that relationship interfered with. Thomas wanted his children to be close—Brian and Kasey and Erin."
I tear up. “He loved those girls..."
"They will never have another father. If I marry—when I marry—it will be clear to the man, and as you know I am good at setting terms."
I thank her for this, though it's really overstepping my bounds.
"You'll see me,” Monica says, “just not at work. Socially, on occasion."
"I'd like that.” I make the stretch. “I know it's not really appropriate now, but if I could ever help in any way, I mean to talk to, or anything..."
"There is one thing, but I think you are already doing it."
"What's that?"
"By loving Thomas’ son. Or shouldn't I put words in your mouth?"
"I think I am not ready for big words like love. I just want to work on like for now."
"Does he love you?"
"He hasn't said so..."
"But you're happy with him?"
"We're happy with each other. We ... understand each other."
This is the first time I have spoken about my feelings for Brian to another human being. It is strange, exhilarating, and scary as hell. I want to run, undo everything all the way back...
"Do you call Brian Master?"
"Depending on the situation.” I fear I am blushing just a little.
"You called Thomas Master, too, didn't you?"
"Not like Brian?"
"No..."
"Look at you blush."
"I've never felt like this. I get so worked up, he drives me wild, he's impossible, I don't think I can last a week with all he wants to do with me, but he's just so relentless, I mean he's always there, when I turn around, I hate that I need him, but I'm terrified he might not be there, too. And that doesn't cover all the power things. What he can make me do. Stuff Thomas would never have pushed on me. Brian really wants this, god, I just hope he knows what he's doing at his age."
"Thomas told me once about Brian. He was learning to ride a bicycle. Thomas got him a big boy two-wheeler with training wheels on it. He thought Brian would be happy but you know what he did?"
"What?” I'm eager, almost giddy to hear a piece of Brian's life ... it's like a piece of me is about to get filled in.
"He pitched a fit. He was furious. He would not accept those training wheels."
I laugh. “That sounds like Brian."
"You know Thomas, he wouldn't fight with him. He sat him down, explained how he could get hurt and all and Brian said he wouldn't get hurt and that was that. So Thomas took off the training wheels and Brian went to work. For an entire week he was nothing but skinned knees and elbows. Vicky was beside herself. Bruises on bruises, blood, but not a tear shed. She was afraid they'd get reported to child abuse but Brian would not give up. Finally exactly seven days later, at sunrise he walked out of the house, he got on the bike and he peddled it, straight down the driveway. He didn't stop, didn't run in the house to tell his parents, he just rode all the way around the block. Then he came back, parked his bike and sat down for his cereal.
"'Sweetie, you did it,’ his mother exclaimed. He kept on eating. ‘I told you I would,’ he said and that was it."
I thank Monica and I think I get the point. Brian has his father's tenacity, though he sets his own goals. He wants something and he seizes it.
Me—Playground Caroline—I am this year's two-wheeler.
He has me but what happens when it's time to move on?
"You know,” says Monica. “Hearing about this power stuff makes me interested. Are there men whose libidos work the other way? Who like the woman to be in control?"
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