His by Contract

by Ava Sinclair

  We were mulling this over when I remembered the article I’d read about him. “The Reclusive Mr. M.,” I said. I like it. “So how about Mr. M.?”

  “Mr. M. sounds fine,” he said.

  And on that day, my new life began.

  Chapter Five

  I love traveling. If I were independently wealthy like Mr. M., I’d probably sell my condo and never stay in one place. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Mr. M. says I’d get bored after a while, both with traveling and being rich. When we agreed on the rules, I told him I wouldn’t give up my financial independence or my work. Except for clothing, I wanted to pay for everything. He said he respected that, and that a financially dependent woman really couldn’t submit, anyway, because submission is about deciding to be obedient, and a person who is dependent doesn’t have a choice.

  He does, however, insist on paying for the hotel when he decides he prefers a rendezvous out of town. He said if the rules require us to travel—and sometimes they do—then it’s only fair that he should pay for it. This time it’s the Hyatt Regency with a killer view of the Boston Harbor, and at times like this, our arrangement makes me feel indulged.

  I love this town. I truly do. One year, I plan to run the Boston Marathon. So far, I’ve not qualified, but I will, eventually. For motivation, whenever I’m in Boston I run Heartbreak Hill, which is obviously easier if it’s my second mile and not my twentieth.

  Running is something else that was non-negotiable. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with high-functioning anxiety. Running helps keep it at bay, and I love it. Mr. M.’s only concern is my safety. I am required to let him know when and where I’ll be running.

  That rule caused some considerable debate. I told him that where I ran was my business. He told me that part of being a dominant was being protective. In the end, he got his way, and I’ve gotten used to it. Sometimes when we’re visiting a different city, he runs with me, and one afternoon when we were halfway through a three-mile jog, some knucklehead catcalled me. Mr. M. turned back, and I could hear the man apologizing as I ran ahead. I don’t know what Mr. M. said, but I get the feeling he thought twice about catcalling another woman.

  Maybe that’s why the game we’re here to play is such a puzzle to me. We don’t play it often, and when we were negotiating the rules, this one surprised me given how he reacts to catcallers, and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it. But now I get as turned on by the game now as he does.

  Tonight’s game starts in isolated section of a subway station where it takes two hours of sitting on a bench before Mr. M. decides on which car we’d enter. I instantly know why he’s chosen it. An old couple is sitting at the end of the car and the only other occupant is a young man, handsome, and with the beleaguered look of someone in middle management who’d not expected to just be riding home at ten p.m.

  As we take our seats across from him, the young man loosens his tie and puts his earbuds in. Even as the car begins to move I can hear the reverb of some grunge rock song by Audioslave.

  I’m wearing a black raincoat and heels, and sit quietly waiting for Mr. M.’s cue. He’s watching the young man, whose eyes are closed. As the subway rounds a bend in the track, the car rumbles and he opens them. That’s when Mr. M. squeezes my hand.

  I open my legs and the young man’s eyes widen for a moment as he stares. He glances away, then glances back. Then he looks at Mr. M. and a flush moves from his face to his collar as he looks away. He straightens in his seat and shifts. One of his earbuds falls out and he scrambles to grab it, his retrieval clumsy. In the split second he looks down, I casually hike up the hem of my coat, exposing more of my legs. I don’t look at him, but I don’t have to. I know he is staring at the shaved labia clearly visible between my thighs.

  When our eyes meet, I smile. It’s a secret smile—a smile that conveys the message, “Look all you want. My boyfriend won’t mind.” But I can see that the young man still isn’t sure. His tongue darts out to unconsciously lick his lip as I turn my head and pull the lapel of my coat down to expose the top of my breast. By now he’s figured out that I’m naked underneath, and he seems to have almost forgotten that Mr. M. is here. The lights of the car flicker in a strobing effect, and I part my legs further, one hand slipping into my coat to pinch my nipple as the other parts my labia.

  I can see the swell in the trousers. He isn’t trying to hide that either as he stares. I don’t have to stroke myself vigorously. The motion of the car, the excitement of being watched by a stranger, and the knowledge that my exhibitionism is turning Mr. M. on is all the stimulation I need.

  “Mr. M.,” I say, leaning my head back on the seat and looking over at him through hooded lids. The young man has taken out his earbuds, obviously wanting to catch what what’s being said. “Mr. M., may I come?”

  “Yes, my pet,” he replies, and I do, moaning as I push my pussy into my palm, flooding it with wetness. The train rolls to a stop. As it does, I sit up, cross my legs to hide my still-throbbing pussy, and adjust the lapel of my coat as I pull the hem discreetly over my knees. Anyone getting on now will just see a well-dressed couple possibly traveling back from the theater.

  The young man looks slightly disoriented. He stares at me as he rises, and Mr. M. catches my chin, turns it toward him, and kisses me as I moaned softly against his mouth.

  “Lucky bastard,” the young man says, and Mr. M. winks as he walks out the door. The older couple who’ve been sitting obliviously at the end of the car rise and shuffle past, oblivious of the show we’ve put on.

  “Have a nice evening,” the old woman says.

  “Oh, we will,” Mr. M. says.

  And it is. We don’t even make it back to the hotel. We ride the subway back to a few blocks from our stop, and in a deserted alley, Mr. M. pushes me up against the wall, his cock pounding my pussy as his mouth presses against my ear.

  “You’re mine and mine alone, understand?” he says, fucking me so hard I’m forced to wrap my legs around his waist for balance.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Say it!” He squeezes my ass, and this time there’s a desperation in his voice that I’ve never heard before. And even though I’m submitting, I feel powerful. Sure, he’s rich, but I’m a beautiful woman. I can have any man, but it’s him I’m giving myself to. Even a man like Mr. M. needs reassurances.

  “I’m yours,” I say breathlessly, meaning every word. “I’m yours, Mr. M. Yours and yours alone.”

  Chapter Six

  When I was thirteen years old, I took second place in a regional spelling bee. I had two reasons for working hard. I was an excellent student and loved the confidence academic excellence brought me. And my mother—who rarely rewarded me—had promised me a brand new bicycle—a grownup ten-speed Schwinn with curved handlebars—if I performed well in the spelling bee. I won’t lie. I really, really wanted that bike. Two of my friends had gear bikes, and my single-speed cruiser couldn’t keep up.

  Every day on the way home from school I’d stop at Merton’s Bike Shop and run my fingers over the frame of the coveted bike. Then I’d go home and drill myself for hours, dreaming of both pleasing my mother and racing my friends on my new bike. The day of the spelling bee, I felt good about my chances. My parents, who were usually working and didn’t attend school events, were both there for this one.

  It was my moment to shine, for myself and for them. And I did, until the very end. There were two of us left, and the word that lost the competition for me is one I still spell flawlessly to this very day, having missed it then. That word was soliloquy. I left out the second ‘l,’ even though I remember spelling it correctly in my drills. I still can’t account for the mistake, but it was devastating.

  What happened next was worse.

  I’d still finished a respectable second out of three hundred students. I got a nice rosette and a small trophy and lots of handshakes and hugs from my teachers, who seemed pleased to have the small private Carver Day School place second in such a prestigio
us contest.

  I was ready to go bike shopping, and all but hopped over to my mother and asked her if we could head straight to the store.

  “We’ll talk about it in the car,” she said.

  It’s a good thing we waited. When she announced that there would be no bike, I burst into tears. But she was unmoved. ‘Soliloquy’ was an easy word, she said, and she would not reward sloppiness, even if I did get a trophy. I didn’t deserve to be rewarded for losing what should have been won, she told me. I deserved to be punished. She said I would thank her later, because this would make me a better person.

  I hated her ever since. And I hated my father for sitting there, complicit to her cruelty by refusing to intervene on my behalf.

  But enough about my shitty childhood. Let’s just say that my mother was one of those people who used punishment as an excuse to deny me things she didn’t want to give me anyway. That very afternoon, she purchased a three-hundred-dollar handbag for herself, the price of her new treasure close to what she would have spent on the promised bike.

  In our house, punishment was not about training and molding me to be a better person, and I found myself envying my school friends who were fairly punished, as much as I envied them when they were genuinely hugged.

  “No punishments,” I’d told Mr. M. the day that came up in negotiations. We were sitting at a corner table in the café, and I spoke the words quietly but firmly. Mr. M. and I had been discussing our sexual and psychological attraction to rules. I longed for the safety and security of boundaries. He longed to provide them. But my experience with punishment had fixed it in my mind as something punitive and unloving.

  “But we can’t have rules without consequences,” he said. There was steel in his tone.

  “I don’t need consequences if I follow the rules,” I said. “And we’re working on a contract that says I’ll have to follow the rules or we end the relationship. So, isn’t that the consequence?”

  “That’s what you want?” he asked. “To stop seeing each other because of a one-off infraction? Nobody’s perfect, Sloane. Not even you.”

  I frowned at this. It had only been a short time, and he already knew me so well, knew my penchant for staying in control, knew my need to hand some of that control over to him before I collapsed under my own expectations.

  I twirled a strand of hair around my finger—a nervous habit I’d developed as a child—as I pondered what he was saying. I was already falling hard for this man. Even though we were from different worlds, even though I worked for security and he worked for fun. I couldn’t imagine breaking up with him.

  “What kind of punishment?” I asked.

  “Were you spanked as a child?”

  I shifted in my seat. I’d not been spanked, but part and parcel of my submission was a fascination with spanking.

  “No,” I said. “Just by you.”

  He grinned rakishly, no doubt remembering our first night together. He’d hiked up my skirt, rubbed my ass, and smacked it until I’d whimpered and pushed back against him.

  “But I like it when you spank me,” I said, lowering my voice as a barista walked past on her way to the restroom.

  I’ll never forget what he said next. “You won’t like it when I spank you for punishment.”

  I felt a simultaneous thrill and chill, the kind you get when your roller coaster car goes to the top and you know you’re about to drop into an unknown that you desire yet fear.

  “It will only be for correction, and never punitive,” he continued. “I can spank you any time you want in bed. But punishment spankings will not be erotic. They’ll be delivered with caring concern, but they will be firm and there will be no safeword. Understand?”

  Capricorn. That is our safeword. I’ve only used it a couple of times, and both times it was only until I got over the embarrassment of something new he was trying with me.

  I imagined being ass-up over his knee, spanked hard. My pussy grew wet. He had spanked me hard for play. So why not agree to it? I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to please him. And besides, I wasn’t planning to break any rules. So, when all was said and done, that became a rule. I would agree to submit to being spanked. Which brings me to this morning…

  I must always log my running route with Mr. M., who must approve it. Today I wanted to run at the north end of the park. It’s crisp and cool and there’s a hill there that’s particularly challenging. But there was a man apprehended there two nights ago for trying to assault a woman walking her dog. Mr. M. thought it best for me to avoid the area.

  I objected. The man who’d tried to abduct the woman had been arrested, but he insisted it wasn’t safe. There was more gang activity on the north side, he said, and that attempted assault was indicative of the growing crime in the area.

  This was the first order he’d given me that I felt I could dismiss. Mr. M. isn’t a runner, I told myself, at least not like me. And there’s danger everywhere, every day. It seemed silly to restrict my route due to one bad apple. So, I smiled and told him, “Fine, I’ll stick to the south end.”

  Was it my tone? Was it the way I glanced down instead of meeting his gaze when I acquiesced? Whatever it was, he decided to follow me. I hadn’t even broken a sweat after two miles, and was heading toward the hill, when I saw his car coming toward me. I stopped, my heart pounding, as he pulled over.

  “Get in,” he said stonily. I didn’t argue. I didn’t object. I did look longingly toward the hill. I’ve never interrupted a run. I almost started crying right there. But I got in.

  When we got back to his place, the first thing Mr. M. did was point to the sofa. “Sit down,” he said. I sat down and watched as he fetched his laptop and opened it. He was tapping on keys as he walked over and then he put it down on the coffee table, and I found myself staring at a midday follow-up news report on the previous night’s assault. As it turns out, it had been a gang initiation, and the young man who’d been arrested had admitted to police that others had been planned.

  “Do you have anything to say before I bare your ass and spank it?” he asked.

  The words made me feel both jarred and convicted.

  “Mr. M.…” I began. But the plea forming in my throat died away as I remembered his comment about breaking up over a one-off violation. And let me just say here that I am not the kind of woman who’d take any kind of shit just to be with a man. But Mr. M. isn’t any man. He’s the first man who’s gotten me to open up, to step outside of myself. He protects and guides me, but he also challenges me. I don’t want to end our arrangement. I want to see where he’ll take me.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said when I remained silent. “Stand up, Sloane.”

  My legs felt rubbery, like… half marathon rubbery. But it was nerves this time and not fatigue. Mr. M. looked grim as he jerked my shorts down. The panties followed and I braced myself, thinking I was about to go over his knee. But Mr. M. didn’t do that. I yelped as he stood and took me by my ear—my ear!—and pulled me to the corner like a naughty child. Then he left me, and he didn’t have to tell me not to move.

  So here I am… Standing here in the corner, with my running shorts and panties lowered to the top of my thighs and my top raised to my lower back, the thrill part of that roller coaster feeling I mentioned earlier is absent, and I’m left with just the chill.

  I fidget, and he barks for me to stand still. I stand still. The room is cool, and the air from the vent brushes across my exposed bottom. Before, when he’s spanked me for pleasure, I’ve been naked. But my bottom feels even more naked now, framed by the raised shirt and lowered shorts and panties. I’m more aware of it, and of what he’s planning to do. My fists clench and unclench nervously at my sides. The skin of my backside tingles.

  Mr. M. turns the television on. He reminds me to keep my nose in the corner, and I can hear him clicking through the channels. I hear the Weather Channel meteorologist tracking a storm front moving through the Ohio Valley. Then I hear a commercial for some wonder drug
with awful side effects. Then Wolf Blitzer is moderating an angry debate over tax reform. I shift from foot to foot, and resist the urge to look back. Is Mr. M. watching the television, or is he staring at my exposed bottom? Now he’s turned the channel again, this time to a History Channel documentary about World War II code breakers. The narrator’s voice is smooth and drones on and on, and I’m starting to get irritated. I don’t want a spanking, but waiting for it is making my imagination run wild. He’s told me it will hurt. He’s told me I won’t like it. We never talked about how he’d spank me. Will he use his hand? A belt? My stomach flips at the latter. I’ve never been hit with a belt, but I know I’d hate it.

  “Sloane, come here.” He’s clicked off the television and I turn, feeling awkward. My movement is hampered by my shorts and although he’s seen every inch of my pussy, I feel self-conscious of the visible mound of flesh between my hobbled thighs. I drop my hands, shielding myself as I make my way over. When I reach him, he slaps them out of the way.

  “Don’t ever cover yourself around me. Understand?”

  Tears sting my eyes. His tone hurts my feelings. He sounds so disapproving. My heart begins to pound.

  “You’re angry,” I say accusingly.

  “No, I’m not,” he says. “I frankly expected some disobedience from you before this. You’ve been a good girl, Sloane. But running where I told you not to run was an act of defiance, and now I’m going to teach you what happens when you defy me. Teachers don’t get angry. They teach.” He pauses. “I’m not like your folks.”

  My folks. I’ve told him a bit about them, just dribs and drabs. Not the whole story, mind you, but enough for him to piece together what things from my past trigger me.

  He sees through my narrative even before I figured out what I was trying to do. I was trying to make him the bad guy. And he’s not. He’s just keeping his promise to correct me.

  Now he does pull me over his knee, and the feel of his hard thighs through the fabric of his dress slacks is more arousing than I expected. Ass up. Vulnerable. My pussy is wet, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to hide the secret of my excitement.