Oh yes I can. Even if it turns out to be another date with a guy who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and doesn’t have the imagination of a planarian worm, it’ll be something.
And with that pessimistic but rational attitude, she returned to the table, cool and confident. She slid into her seat and smiled comfortably at him. “I guess I just have one point to discuss with you,” she said, opening her purse with one hand. “This being the age of safety concerns...”
Of course we’ll use safer sex,” he interrupted, with another grin. “So with that out of the way, which of the two scenarios did you prefer?”
Robin froze for a second. Well, that had been her biggest concern, right? So, she broke free of the stillness that settled inside her and blushed and lowered her head just a little bit.
“I like the bondage idea better,” she said softly.
“Nope. Wrong answer.” Troy stood up and scooped up the check. “You should have said, ‘Whatever would please you most.’” He leaned over her, whispering hotly into her ear. “Just for that, you’ll be holding those red cheeks open for me, begging me to fuck your asshole.”
And, three hours later, that was precisely what happened.
* * * *
She was much more cautious with Troy than she had been with Maria. After the initial thrill of their first three or four meetings, Robin deliberately pulled back and began a more controlled approach. Troy turned out to be perfectly agreeable to this; in fact, he seemed to think more of her for it.
“I hate people who can start calling themselves slaves after the first date,” he said one night, while they waited in line for a movie. “You see them hopping from relationship to relationship, always sure that this one is more real than the last one. And I guess it makes me feel like the words get cheapened. If everyone who plays bottom is a slave and everyone who plays top is a master or a mistress, then where’s the romance of the titles? Where’s the element of the extraordinary?”
“It’s in the people who really make you feel that they’re different. The ones who don’t make a point out of telling you about what they’re doing, but who just do it.” Robin thought about it for a moment, running the names of people they knew through her head. “Like those two guys at the Fetish Frolic? Dave and...”
“Mike. I remember them. Mike had his nipples pierced.”
“Right. But what I really remember about them was that the minute they walked into a room, even though they were both dressed and you couldn’t see Mike’s collar, you could tell that Dave was his master. When Mike sat down on the floor, it didn’t look staged. It was just what he did. When they talked about how they lived at home, you really believed it. It wasn’t like they were making it all up to impress other people.”
“I like the way you can sense things like that,” Troy said, looking into her eyes. “It keeps me remembering that you’re the real thing.”
Lines like that made Robin blush and move the conversation along. But they also kept her coming back.
* * * *
He was as different from Maria as two people could be. Where Maria had started with ritual and elaborate scenes, Troy built upward from good and hot sex to a gradual inclusion of rules and formalities. Where Maria fell in love and loved wholeheartedly, Troy kept a certain distance, never touching the border of “boyfriend.” He never brought flowers, or used endearments. He didn’t hold her hand or kiss her gently and playfully. When they went out, he never placed his arm around her or encouraged her to move into that closeness that people associated with couples.
Where Maria used her skills in dominance and erotic torment as a lover would, Troy used them more as parameters for their growing relationship. Some forms of attention were rewards. Some were punishments. Some were entirely for his own amusement and pleasure. Robin became aware that they had entered a period of negotiation where the two of them traded expectations, fetishes and needs, without actually coming out and saying everything directly.
In time, they passed through those awkward stages of semi-negotiation.
He encouraged her to talk about her fantasies. She encouraged him to take the lead in determining when, where, and how they would interact sexually. They rewarded each other with their eagerness to go into their respective roles, until it became more natural than anything else.
And without a collar like the one she wore before, Robin slowly became Troy’s “submissive.”
He was demanding of her in ways she delighted in. He began by teaching her exact postures and positions to take upon the utterance of a word or a flick of a subtle hand signal. He utterly dominated their sensual explorations, planning what they would do and not altering it unless it was his pleasure to do so.
And rather than keeping the physical side of their relationship private, he introduced Robin to semi-public play, at SM clubs and parties, where she would find herself stripped and bound and tormented for the pleasure of an audience as well as for the pleasure of her “dominant.” The sheer exposure, the humiliation of her responses, and the amount of strength such performances robbed from her all combined to make every public appearance into a test of her endurance. But it was all just another way for her to add luster to her chosen master’s image. It was wearing Maria’s collar and sitting at her feet, but multiplied by ten.
Experiences began to accumulate, making a kaleidoscope of sensations that swept Robin into a period of complete acceptance of her role. She followed Troy’s training with the same sharp attention that served her so well in her profession, and earnestly tried to do everything he demanded of her with flair and an inner expectation of perfection.
Sucking his cock became a regular duty that she transformed into an art, watching videos and reading about techniques and even clumsily practicing on one of her dildos.
Silky, lacy costumes from expensive lingerie stores began to fill her wardrobe, carefully chosen for the way they accentuated her curves and allowed instant access to any part of her body.
She learned everything she could about his tastes and preferences, from the way he took coffee (black, one sugar), to which colors he preferred in his SM toys (in this he was typical, black on black). She anticipated his movements and desires whenever they were together, and learned that such behavior would almost always be followed by some kind of attentive reward from him.
As weeks fell into months and months gathered into seasons and they fed into and upon each other’s desires, Robin began to sense she was finally feeling something that answered the emptiness she’d felt inside of her since she was a child. This was more real than anything she had ever felt before. She was making a difference in Troy’s life, giving him face, pleasure, and service. He was possessive of her, and nurturing and demanding, the way she always imagined a master would be.
So, blinded by her own pleasure and satisfaction, she didn’t realize anything was wrong until the night of the video camera.
Bound inside a doorway with chains, her breasts wrapped in loops of soft rope, her body crisscrossed with a harness made of the same material, Robin could only moan when Troy set up the camera and lights and taped her writhing and moaning as he steadily beat her. Then, as she gasped and whimpered, he used a vibrator on her, making her jerk and thrust as he touched and retreated, teased and pressed. All the while, saying, “Look into the camera, baby. Smile for the camera.”
She came, again and again, and he captured it all on tape.
And made her watch it while he took her from behind, on her hands and knees in front of the television screen.
Whimpers of pleasure became screams, became inarticulate sounds of pleasure mixed with shame mixed with a perfect sense of something that she might have called contentment if she were capable of thinking.
And much later that night, as she lay wrapped in his arms, she murmured to him, “I would love to be marked by you.”
“You are,” he chuckled, tracing the area over her ass cheeks and hips that was dotted with little marks of his earlier whipping.<
br />
“No, I mean a real mark,” she whispered, snuggling closer.
“You mean, like a tattoo?”
“Yes, if that’s what you’d prefer. Or maybe a brand....” And she smiled and kissed him and immediately felt the shift, the slight stiffening of his body that was as chilly as an icy mist sweeping through the sheets.
“Go to sleep.” His voice no longer held amusement. Nor did it permit discussion.
With a sinking feeling settling over her, Robin couldn’t help but disobey. Closing her eyes, she lay awake beside him long into the night, wondering what she said that made him suddenly so distant.
And what that would mean in the morning.
Chapter Ten
“An owner may wish to alter your physical appearance, and has every right to do so, barring an alteration which places you in physical danger. Therefore, you may be expected to grow or trim, remove, style or color any or all of your body hair, or to have its texture changed. You may be expected to use or not to use cosmetics, clothing, adornments, jewelry, or anything else to conform to what your owner expects from you. They may have you pierced in any number of places. My standard contract includes a restriction on any alteration considered permanent; in this category I include tattoos and brands. Would you like to alter that?”
Chris was making notes on a legal pad while Robin knelt motionless on the floor, trying to hold a perfect position while looking natural and relaxed. Her knees were wide apart, her back straight, and her palms resting lightly on her thighs. She spoke carefully, trying to keep herself from bobbing her head and turning it from side to side, the way she normally did when having a conversation. If she wanted to be sold without a gag filling her mouth, she would have to learn how to speak properly.
She had no intention of being gagged on what might be the single most important day of her life.
“Sir, may I please ask a question?”
“You may.”
“Sir, should an owner wish to mark me and I am willing to be marked, will that clause prevent it from happening?”
“No, it will not. It only applies to situations where a permanent mark would be against your will.”
“Sir, then please allow it to stay as you have written it.”
Chris smiled and ground out his cigarette. “Good answer. I was sure you were going to say that you would like the clause kept in. Good girl.”
Robin flushed and tried to keep her position.
“You’ve learned quite a bit in such a short time. I’m beginning to think you might actually be worth it.” He jotted down a few more notes. “On your back and masturbate for me.”
An erotic jolt flashed throughout Robin’s stiff body, and she leaned backward with a barely stifled moan. That kind of mood switch was so typical of her trainer, yet so unpredictable! She slid her legs out underneath her body and brought her fingers down to her bare cunt, finding the wetness already there. It was almost always there, or waiting for a moment’s notice to start flowing through her.
She had not experienced the joy and release of orgasm since that first night. But she didn’t let that get in the way of performing exactly as she was instructed to. In fact, since Chris had added “for me,” she tried to be even more direct in her self-stimulation. She pulled gently at her cunt lips, sliding her fingers along the sensitive flesh and trailing lines of sweet moisture up and around her clit, coaxing it erect. And Chris actually watched her, leaning forward, instead of leaving her to moan and twitch while he paid attention to still more paperwork.
Robin felt complimented by the attention, and deliciously embarrassed. She moaned as she brought herself closer to the edge, and then backed down, controlling herself, keeping herself primed to come, but not so close that she would let it get away from her.
And then the doorbell rang.
“That will be Leon, I suppose,” Chris said, leaning back in the chair. “Stop and tend to your duties.”
Robin allowed the slightest of groans to get past her compressed lips, and blushed at the look of disapproval Chris flashed her. Damn it! She had been so perfect all afternoon! With a slight nod that served as an exit bow, she scrambled up and ran down the hallway to answer the door. She licked her fingers and drew them across her belly to dry them and pulled the door open without checking to see who was there.
It wasn’t Leon who greeted her as she opened the door with a grin on her face. It was an older man, perhaps in his mid-forties. His skin was the color of dark ground cinnamon, his tightly shorn hair inky black. His eyes focused upon her immediately, and Robin felt the intensity of a gaze that could only be called calculating. As in her value.
Robin knew that her mouth was open and she snapped it shut. Before she could panic, she saw the familiar golden halo of Leon’s hair just over the stranger’s shoulder, and realized, first to her relief and then to her horror, that this was Mr. Reynolds, of 14C. Leon’s owner.
She was relieved, because here she was without a stitch of clothing on. If it had been some unexpected delivery boy, that would have been most improper. She was horrified because she hadn’t made any gesture of welcome or respect. Her mind flooded with instructions, and she stepped back, bowing her head as gracefully as she could. This seemed to be acceptable, because he brushed past her and continued down the hall, followed by a grinning Leon, his arms full of dinner fixings. He winked at her as he passed, and then hurried on to the kitchen. Unsure of what to do now, Robin locked the door and walked gingerly toward the living room, hoping that Chris would send her to the kitchen as well.
“Mr. Reynolds,” Chris was on his feet when Reynolds entered the room. “Thank you for coming.”
“Gordon, Chris, please call me Gordon. We’re on your turf now.” The two men laughed and shook hands. Robin wondered what the comment about turf meant.
“Thank you, Gordon.”
“So, this is the new project, eh?” Gordon Reynolds turned around to point at Robin, who froze and tried to look calm and shy and alluring. His voice was deep and strong, and she suddenly remembered all the adoration in Leon’s voice when he talked about the man he called master. She suddenly had a flash; the sight of Leon’s golden paleness kneeling before this powerful dark man, taking his cock into his mouth―and felt the wetness return with a surge of pleasure.
“This is Robin,” Chris said, a slightly amused smile on his face. “Wondering which of her instructions apply to the situation and failing to do anything as a consequence.”
Robin gasped and immediately dropped to her knees and lowered her head.
“Well, that was done with some grace,” Gordon Reynolds commented.
“But it doesn’t help matters, does it? Go and fetch our drinks from Leon, Robin and bring back the strap. I’m really pleased that you could make it over, Gordon. Leon told me that you’re working in Canada now....”
Robin fled to the kitchen wanting to cry.
Leon was just corking a bottle of single malt when she entered, her eyes bright with formed tears.
“Now, now, don’t you muss up that sweet face,” he said softly, dabbing at her with his ever-present kindness. “But if you’re gonna cry, be sure to cry real nice.”
Robin managed to smile despite her distress. She sighed, took a deeper breath and picked up the tray. Then, with one more glance at Leon, she whispered, “You never said he was so good looking.”
Leon winked and turned his attention to unpacking the food.
The strap was on the hall table. Robin picked it up, then went into the living room to serve the drinks. That, at least, she managed to do with competence. When she put the tray out of the way, she presented the strap in a neat, elegant movement that brought her back to her knees before Chris, her head bowed.
“That’s more like it,” Reynolds chuckled.
“Up and present!” Chris snapped his fingers and pointed, and up Robin leapt. In a moment, she was kneeling on the sturdy coffee table, her ass jutting up and out, her hands braced on the table surface. She was fa
cing Mr. Reynolds, who uncrossed his legs and eased back into his seat with that same frank look of appraisal on his face. She swallowed hard, and dropped her eyes from his.
The first stroke of the strap caught her across the backs of her thighs, and she whimpered, clenching her eyes and teeth. As Chris raised and lowered the doubled strap over and over, Robin felt acutely aware of every move her body made in reaction. The tensing of her rear cheeks, as they tightened in a futile attempt to dim the spreading heat and pain, the arching of her back as she thrust her ass cheeks out again and again, meeting the wallops with the same earnest shame she felt in all of her punishments.
Having such an attentive audience only made the experience sharper. As the blows drove into her, blazing through her skin, she dipped her head lower and lower, and gasped when Chris’s hand grasped a handful of her hair and jerked her head up, so that her red and tear-streaked face was displayed for the visitor.
She had expected to see a smile on his lips, expected to hear him laugh or make some comment. But he reached out and touched a finger to her cheek, tracing a line across the tears, and trailing it down to her chin. All the while, Chris’s arm never faltered; it rose and fell in the same terrible rhythm until Robin’s breath became ragged and choked.
When he finally stopped, she kissed the strap with passionate thanks, and did the same to his boot when let her get down from the table.
Through all this, Gordon Reynolds said nothing. When Robin picked up her tray and returned it to the kitchen, she could hear the two men going back to their discussion as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
This is a life where your time is divided into two distinct areas, she thought as she and Leon served dinner. Either you’re invisible and ignored, or you’re the center of attention. And there’s no middle ground.
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