***
We’re not talking as much as we did before we started spending so much time in bed. But maybe that’s not necessary, maybe half our chatter was mindless and unnecessary now that we are communicating in other ways. It seems strange to leave her in the apartment in the morning, see her for lunch at midday, and have dinner with her in the evening. At least at lunch when we meet in the café we refrain from sex long enough to chatter again about the topics that brought us together. We seem so wholly consumed by each other I wonder if Fitzgerald is in her mind at all anymore.
After a week I finally have the courage to ask her.
“So, where are things with Billy?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t heard from him because I’m living with you.”
“I suppose I meant in your head?”
“You still think I’m comparing you two, don’t you?” she quips. Is this a condescending grin on her lips?
“Well, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then why am I comparing myself to him?” I ask.
The tone of her laughter soothingly glides its way around my ears. “I don’t know why. You shouldn’t. You’re very different people.”
“Both bring out different sides of you?”
“In a way. You—I love being with you and your body, your smile, your boyish charisma.”
Damn! I hate the term boyish. “So, who’s going to win?” I ask as I ignore the sting of her appraisal.
“I wish you wouldn’t think of it that way. It’s not about winning and losing. It’s about what’s right. About one thing you two are the same,” she says. “You’re both way too jealous.”
I’m suddenly pissed at myself, and abruptly drag her from the café. We walk the streets together for a while, both aware of the sensual pull we have for each other—how the desire to fuck is bounding hotly through us both. I place my hand on her ass and squeeze it—not so tenderly, though she responds with tenderness. Before I realize it, we’re locked together kissing in a nearly deserted street, tucked between rows of old Parisian houses that rise high above into this blue vacant sky. Seems we’re in a private alcove, though there are those that pass by. Apparently, we’re not a bother to anyone; we hardly get a glance our way as the inhabitants of the city go about their business. My hand is under her shirt, clamping itself to a tit. My mouth covers her mouth, this kiss has no end. Our saliva makes our mouths wet. I wish I could taste her cunt right now; but this is too public, way too out in the open. Pushing her down the street as we continue to grope, I finally find what I’m looking for in a deserted alley.
This small space is hardly visible from the street. And when I have Kirsten on the stairs to the lower floor of an apartment building, I bend her over, come around her backside and, from the steps below, find an easy target of her pussy for my face. Latching on to this undulating soft package of need, my tongue primes her. What delightful mewing noises she utters. They make me bolder still. As I tug her back down to street level, she remains bent over. I assault her cunt with my erect weapon and force fingers in her ass. I’m hanging on to her around the waist, keeping her steady, fucking like a maniac, one eye still open for the possible intrusion of a surprised neighbor. We both finish quickly—at least she tells me she cums.
I’m amazed at what she encourages in me, amazed, pleased and satisfied.
“I’m thinking of using a cane on your ass,” I tell her after we’ve wiped away the sexual residue and are on the street again walking toward home.
“Why a cane?” she asks. This time she actually looks a little shocked hearing me suggest the kind of sex play she has with Billy.
“Just a fantasy I pulled from my archives. I think this is the only one I can honestly say has the S&M component you need.”
“You don’t have to do that for me,” she says.
“I know, but I want to. This time I really want to.”
When we return to the apartment, I go out, leaving her only long enough to find the necessary tool to complete my fantasy. She thinks I’ve gone to the vegetable market to buy fresh greens for a salad this evening. Let her think what she likes. The idea of playing with her mind has me obsessively combing the neighborhood where I’ve seen a sex shop I’m sure sells canes.
There’s a strange feeling of empowerment driving me as I fondle the implement the proprietor takes from the wall. I’m mesmerized by the natural bamboo, though I’m told they don’t last like the other ones. I doubt this will be a fantasy that will need much repeating, I think to myself, so the bamboo is what I purchase.
Coming home, I find Kirsten reading a magazine.
“I think over the back of the couch should do,” I declare before she’s even looked up at me.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She’s not sure of me. Do I cut the wrong picture taking on this attitude? It hardly seems natural for me, but I like the way it feels. Once she spots the cane in my hand she understands.
Rising slowly, Kirsten stares my way. Her lips turn up, and her eyes spark as though I’ve piqued her interest.
“That can mar the skin you know,” she informs me.
“Do you like marks?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then maybe I’ll mark you today.”
The tremor of desire rippling through her body is unmistakable. This fact emboldens me. Beautiful to see the fuel of her submissive fire sweep her. Her eyes appear unfocused, her mind becomes cloudy, her movements more sultry, like the feel of the late afternoon air so pregnant with burgeoning expectation.
As she submissively drapes herself over the back of the sofa she clasps her hands behind her at her waist—as though binding herself. Have I forgotten that she needs that too? I wonder. Teetering on the top of the couch, she hardly seems comfortable so precariously perched with her legs stretched out behind her, the skin on her ass quite tight.
As I draw back the cane, I’m hardly sure of what I’m doing and the first swat hits cleanly but with little force. I’m not sure how natural this act is for me, but it does excite my crotch seeing the way Kirsten’s skin tingles. I can’t help but tenderly touch the spot that begins to brighten to a pale red. Feeling her quivering muscles in my hand, the desire for what I’m doing grows. Stepping back again, I deliver another cut, and stop to watch her flesh jiggle. This time the strike is hard enough to create a response in my submissively reposed lover. I reel off several more without stopping, hearing Kirsten begin to cry. The sexual need in me is too powerful to continue, and I descend on her ass with my erection ready. Hanging on to her clenched wrists, I take her first in the cunt, then move to her asshole as I massage the opening until it relaxes. Easing inside her, I can see that initially this is difficult to bear—like she’s not quite ready for this much. Yet, becoming accustomed to the violation, she’s soon moaning just as I am, seeking a needed release.
Gazing at her ass, I see the small damage I’ve done to her appear as bright stripes—two raising decent welts on her skin’s surface. Inspired, my pummeling continues even harder until I have her body and mind swimming in an ending that grips us both. I pull away from her exhausted, still eyeing the wounds, realizing that the few stripes I’ve left might actually last more than a day.
We don’t talk afterwards, we don’t even kiss. I’m not sure of myself, or these feelings, and I think she senses that. But she says nothing. I leave for a while, returning to work, finally coming home to see that Kirsten has dinner waiting for me. It’s nearly eight o’clock.
After we eat, Kirsten is doing the dishes, I’m helping. Though our mood has lightened, I realize that the air is still tensely hot between us.
“You didn’t have to sacrifice yourself for me that way,” she finally says.
“What do you mean sacrifice?”
“Doing what you’re not really into.”
“I wanted to do it, Kirsten,” I way, feeling jus
t a little offended.
“Because you thought I wanted it.”
“You think I didn’t enjoy what I was doing?”
“Not really.”
“But if we’re going to have a complete relationship then we need to address all your sexual needs.”
“It’s okay that you’re not right for this. The cane is not exactly an erotic implement in my mind, but you made it so. You can’t help yourself. I love what you did, but it wasn’t the same … it’s really okay if this is not your passion.”
“But maybe you’re wrong. Maybe it is my passion and I’m just discovering that fact.”
She’s convinced otherwise, and it seems like this conversation is heading nowhere.
Kirsten broods for a while and I leave her alone. Later, we fall asleep with a perfunctory kiss all we can share.
***
I feel Kirsten slipping away from me, like she’s telling me less and less, and I’m finding fewer questions to ask. While in the midst of my workday, a startling revelation ends up in my email. I can hardly believe what I’m reading. I’m shocked, pissed and raging by the time I get home to confront her.
“Tell me, what is it you’re really doing?”
“What do you mean?” she stands before me in a summer sundress, her back to the windows so I can see the eroticism of her naked body appearing through the pale fabric of vines and roses that twist about her body. I’m enraged, but I’m still in lust.
“Tell me what you really feel about you and me.”
She’s startled, mulling my fury—like she can’t quite figure what’s happening.
“I want the truth.”
“The real truth?”
“No, just a pack of real lies.” Damn! I’m pissed.
She shakes, looking as erotically appealing as I’ve ever seen her, it must be the real excitement that comes from real confrontation. Her nipples tighten pressing against the fabric of her dress. I can hardly continue.
“With you it’s lust Tony,” she finally answers me.
“And with Billy?”
She looks completely vanquished, but she does answer, “With Billy it’s love.”
“I’d hoped it would be the other way around.” Though I try not to wear my feelings, it’s my turn to be defeated.
“I can’t explain it. This is simply how it works in my heart.”
“And you’ve been thinking that since I caned you?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t what you really wanted.” I guess.
“It’s a mood, an attitude that you don’t have. That’s not an indictment—I adore so much with you …”
“He uses you, punishes you, arbitrarily pulls your strings. You dance to his music, allow him to humiliate you beyond decency… he controls your life, your mind—even the people that care about you.”
She remains unfazed.
“Yes, he even has me working for him!” I spit out. “You know he was responsible for bringing me to Paris?”
This doesn’t even shock her.
“His money and influence brought me here. I didn’t know who held the purse strings of this made-in-heaven assignment, but he made sure I’d come. He manipulated me the way he manipulates you, and with all that, you still want him?”
“It’s not a question of wanting, it’s a question of need and love. I suspect the method to his madness was seeing if I really want what he gives me.”
“So, I’m just a pawn,” I snap sarcastically. I pace the room feeling this bitch’s betrayal ignite anger I haven’t felt in years. “Maybe I should punish you,” I say turning around, staring her down. “I mean real punishment.”
She’s not used to this from me, but she answers as a good submissive would. “If that’s what you want.”
My indignation drives me. How many times would I have liked to upend some petulant bratty lover and given her a good beating—nothing to mar her delicate flesh—but I’d be dishonest to say the desire hasn’t turned the idea of myself on end a few pointed times. And this one—this deliciously modest, self-effacing femme fatale with a gift for binding my balls in a knot—this one’s driven me to a place in myself I don’t normally like going. But why the brakes? Why worry about consequences, or political correctness? Why care about being sensitive and understanding? After all, this one likes to be harassed, brutalized, battered a little. She thrives on humiliation.
“Come here!” I order her.
She’s dazed because my voice is so unyielding.
“Now!”
“You don’t really mean it?” I feel her withdrawing permission to punish her. I can see that noting the fear in her eye. She never believed I’d do it. And that makes my blood run hot. I’m much too nice, the kind one, the pushover, the fellow that she ran over for years until Billy rescued her from pansies like us. It’s utter stupidity to play this game. But I’ve already anted up, my stake’s on the table. If she thinks I’m gonna fold my hand because she whines, well, she’ll learn otherwise very soon.
Oh! There’s something primal about this move. Unbuckling my belt, I think I’m reverting to the olden days, and that old plain-faced leather justice. As the belt slides from my pants, I’m inspired by many centuries of men who never doubted their right to properly chastise their property. She may be mine for only one more hour, but for as long as I make that claim, she will be mine.
“Come here!” I bark the order, see her shiver, and in response, cast a surly look her way. She meekly begins to move.
When she reaches my side, I sit in the chair, drawing her over my lap. My anger is leading the way, the indignation more than an aphrodisiac. It guides me in this age old drama of misconduct and punishment. Once I have her cute ass bared, I begin the spanking, saying nothing while my fury metes out what I assume to be a zealous punishment.
For Kirsten’s part, she’s quickly undone by the surprise maneuver, jerking and wiggling, struggling against me as I imagine she struggles against Billy when he punishes her. Her ass turns scarlet as strike after strike bounces off her skin, the intensity beginning to tattoo lines on the delicate surface. I can see it turn rough.
She tries hard to keep her protests minimal, but after a time she can’t. I know it’s hurting and I’m glad. I to want her to feel half the pain I’m feeling now, even if it’s only physical.
We seem to have some symbiotic need for this. Justice I suppose. I hate it. I hate myself falling into the trap she laid, but now that I have, I’ll live through it. But as the self-reproach leaps up and grabs me harder than my anger, I finally stop, throwing the belt to the side of the room.
I watch as Kirsten awkwardly stands, as the dress goes down over her ass. I know we’ve reached our end. I’m more than a little sad that it ends so badly. I wish I hadn’t been drawn into this.
“I’m sorry, Tony. I had no desire to hurt you.”
“You knew all along he brought me here?”
“That I didn’t know, though it doesn’t surprise me the strings that Billy can pull. He did give me permission to live out this thing with you. And, at the start, I was really wondering if it could be real between us.”
“When did you know?”
“The caning,” she replies.
“I should have ended it then.”
“It doesn’t matter. We tried. That’s what matters.”
“Maybe she’s right. Maybe I did have a chance in the beginning. Isn’t that all we ever do with love? Take chances. Nothing is a sure thing. Certainly I know that, and especially know that with Kirsten Cates. I just had to go barreling my way into territory that makes no sense to me. Part of me will be in love with her forever, but I will not ever understand her.
“What’s going to happen when you return to him?” I ask.
“He’ll punish me.”
“For something that he allowed you to do?”
“It’s just the way it works. No. Billy didn’t stop me, he knew what I was doing, but I assume our agreement still stands. It wasn’t suspended. T
hat’s simply how it works with him.”
All I can do is shake my head in puzzlement.
She packs her things by herself. I leave the apartment. As I walk out on the street, I don’t know whether to be ashamed of myself for spanking her, or find a bar and down a few brews with a manly smile on my face. I’ve conquered the woman! Is that what men like Billy feel? I don’t have a clue. Obviously, I’m not like them. I suppose, for just one instant, however, I understood justice, and felt the desire for revenge rise in me to an impossible heat, even if I can’t accept the solution in the manner of a dominant man.
Kirsten
It’s Saturday when I move back into Billy’s flat. I had hoped I’d be here before he returned to Paris. Then I’d leave him wondering if I ever left—at least until I confessed the truth. But of course, he’d know regardless. He has his spies. I can count on that.
Finding out he’s been in Paris two days, I’m sure he considers me tardy when I finally arrive home—my task should have been wrapped up long before now. I know my affair with Tony Flynn is hardly a question mark in his mind, though it certainly was for me. It’s not now. I know where I belong.
As I enter the apartment, there he is, as if he never left. Sitting in his chair pouring over some business papers, he looks as disinterested as if I’d just gone to the market. I meet his scrutiny meekly, already feeling the surrender in me take over. Blowing every thought of Tony Flynn out of my mind there is just one thought now, repairing this rift between my master and me.
I spend a minute or two under his grueling scrutiny. The fluttering in my tummy begins as I see the object of my arousal looking like the harried businessman, just arrived home, suit coat and tie thrown over the back of a chair, the starched sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow—my, where have I seen that look before? The dark elegance that pervades him clutches me hard in the groin. How I have missed him! His handsome cool defies me to describe him, or find a means to explain how his arrogance masters my physical response and hypnotizes my mind. “Well, what do we have here?” Billy finally speaks.
In Chains Page 11