Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  As he slipped from bed this night, her heart sank beyond her toes, lodging somewhere off the end of the bed… maybe under the bed, which was exactly where she wanted to crawl. This was a very unslavelike attitude, and he’d despise it if she let it show. But fisting is special. It requires a personal honesty bigger and fancier than just normal honesty. Talk about being penetrated! How could he fist her and leave her?

  That’s exactly what he was going to do.

  “You have to go?” That was a verboten question, too. But she asked anyway.

  Midway through putting on his left sock, he turned and stared.

  “You have to go?” she repeated, thinking he didn’t hear; and for some reason, his hearing her clearly was very important right now.

  “I heard you,” he said stiffly. “And the answer is yes. It should be obvious, now, shouldn’t it?” He was annoyed.

  “Why?”

  He cocked his head, not believing what he was hearing. Going beyond annoyed, his face first flushed with anger, then he stopped abruptly and returned to the bed, sitting down on the edge.

  “Something wrong, slave?” he asked, tousling her hair in his palm, running his fingers through the curls, then tugging her a little closer being almost playful. This was an act of kindness—and she was sure she’d eventually pay. He was pouring on the charm with a nervous smile, as though he realized that there was something seriously wrong.

  “The way you leave me is wrong,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “The way you have a wife, the way I share you, the way I’m your slave one hour and forgotten the next.”

  “If you don’t like the arrangement, Regan, you are free to leave.”

  “Am I?”

  “Of course.”

  “So, even my contract doesn’t matter?”

  “It only goes as deep as your feelings for me. I’m not about coercing any woman to be my slave. But if you are my slave, you live with the reality of what that means. You know what that reality is and I shouldn’t have to point this out.”

  “And I’ll be punished for making you explain this, won’t I?”

  He considered her for a moment, lips pursed grimly. “If you decide to stay, yes.”

  A tremor of excited fear made her belly clench. Though she wasn’t looking for punishment; she was looking for understanding. It was not Jon’s to give.

  “How would you punish me?” she wondered.

  He thought a moment more. “I’d probably fist your ass.”

  She shrunk back wearing her disgust and fear across her face.

  “Don’t tempt me. I might just change my plans and do it now.”

  She stared him down—he had a very good stare that could normally roust the villains in her wavering slave psyche and turn her into a puddle of sensuous submission. But the effect was suddenly, unexpectedly, missing.

  “I don’t think so,” she said cautiously, knowing that she was writing a script for her immediate dismissal. She even looked around the room, wondering how much of her old stuff he’d let her have. She owned nothing. Everything was his. Slaves have no possessions, even in the modern world.

  “I see.” His eyes flashed once with that boyish brilliance that first captured her imagination at the sidewalk café. “And why would that be?” he asked.

  She was impervious to his charm now.

  “I want to save that for another master.”

  He didn’t expect the end to come that fast—and neither did she.

  Jon gave her a cardboard box with her personal effects—jewelry, perfume and a few knickknacks from the apartment, plus five hundred dollars and a savings passbook with another fifteen hundred.

  She had no idea how much money she made for him—probably better that she hadn’t kept track of her last ten months of work.

  He left her a few clothes—some cherished favorites were noticeably missing. He was unquestionably a Master to the end. And she was almost glad he was. She wasn’t changing her status as a slave—that was a fixed thing. To be booted from the apartment with just her cardboard box of trinkets made her slave decision stick. She just needed another, better master.

  ***

  Regan returned home to Kurt, bewildered and incensed—which was likely more a product of fear and the accompanying exhaustion from her afternoon with Tennyson Hallock. This was hardly a slave rebellion, although she had more rebellious thoughts rattling in her brain than she’d felt in many months.

  She took a right turn at the kitchen and went for her studio, ignoring Kurt; though ignoring Kurt was akin to screaming in his ear that she was pissed. Settling in at her desk, she went to work immediately on the sketches she would present to her client the next day. Despite her worries over the ceiling fresco, her brain had been working overtime on the possibilities. Images had come to her so fast that she could hardly stop. But she did.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she heard Kurt’s voice jar her from the immediate picture, though she only glanced up quickly. Her husband—her master—was a handsome, but clipped man. His hair was impeccably trimmed, his face always smooth and his methodology of life as neatly circumscribed. That didn’t mean he was either predictable or unexciting, just easily defined and understood. When it came to Masters and slaves, he was all black and white, leaving little room for compromise with her behavior; Regan had adapted well. Returning to her charcoal and paper she sensed an internal heat begin to build inside her chest. He wouldn’t ignore the intentional slight—not even for her creative muse.

  “Just need to get this down, sir.”

  “Look at me, Regan.”

  She did look up this time.

  “Sir?”

  “I expect so little. I give you tremendous liberty, and still you abuse that liberty.”

  “Only for a good reason.”

  “There is no good reason.”

  “No, sir. I suppose there is not.” She could feel herself adjusting in size, as if she were shrinking. A slavelike lowliness was creeping back into her, becoming more complete every second her eyes connected with her husband’s.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?”

  “Regan!”

  “Sir, you didn’t tell me about Tennyson Hallock,” she blurted out the truth.

  “I didn’t have to tell you anything.”

  “You could have at least let me know that he was a master. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to submit to him or be his interior designer.”

  “Do you submit to masters just because they announce themselves to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then Tennyson Hallock is no different.”

  “But he treated me…”

  “Like a slave? Of course, he would. That’s because that’s what you are. And in his world he doesn’t know anything but masters and slaves.”

  “Really?” Just the thought of that brought back the savage feelings he’d tapped in her earlier that day. Nothing but masters and slaves… though it seemed impossible to live that far outside society’s conventions, she was certain that Tennyson Hallock was one to pull it off.

  “Yes, really,” Kurt shot back.

  “Sir, I felt this was unfair, as though you’d…” she hesitated here but went on anyway, “set me up.”

  Kurt snickered. “Isn’t that exactly what a slave loves the most? Being set-up, twisted about, your mind careening with the element of surprise? Or, has your nature suddenly changed?”

  “No-no, sir. It hasn’t.”

  “Then you’re experiencing some temporary insanity.”

  “Perhaps.” She was feeling very cautious and controlled, being embroiled in a scene when she least desired an entanglement. But, with the raw sexuality from the afternoon left to ferment, she knew little way out. It was unlikely she’d escape this night unscathed.

  “I think you’d better go to the dungeon,” he stated in the flat serious monotone he used whenever she’d gone over the edge. She hadn’t heard that tone—especi
ally not so seriously delivered—in nearly a year. And though there was always a thrill accompanying that rigid voice, this time, she had something real to fear.

  “Now, sir?”

  His eyes flashed; and before he could say another word, she popped from the stool and hustled body and soul out the door, taking the stairs as rapidly as she could.

  Kurt wasn’t as fast.

  He let her stew several minutes before he finally appeared, swishing the gold drape in the basement aside.

  Regan stood, almost holding her breath, while her nervous fingers played with the sides of her skirt, getting them as damp as her damp hands.

  She wouldn’t be going to the cross for a scene, or even ride the spanking bench behind her. This wouldn’t be a sexual moment, but punishment.

  “Take off your clothes,” Kurt ordered.

  For all the hundreds of times she’d been naked in her husband’s presence—even naked for strangers and friends—stripping to be punished felt as though it were her first time naked for her master’s eyes. She followed the order now, keeping one eye on his fixed and imperious gaze—looking for some sign of inconsistency—there was none.

  Because Kurt didn’t want his slave associating the tools of pleasure with the tools of punishment, he made a bar especially for the event. The crude post was the size of a small tree trunk and was rounded so that her tummy and crotch could rest comfortably over the top and afford him a good clean swipe at her bared ass cheeks. When he made the bar, she’d been there for the final adjustments, so that he had it at just the right height for maximum effectiveness. She could stand flat-footed—he didn’t want her unstable in the position—and grab a second lower bar on the other side to keep her steady.

  Regan didn’t bother waiting for his further orders; it seemed superfluous to draw out the inevitable even a second longer than it had to be. Once naked, she moved to the bar and draped her torso over the top. Adjusting herself, she then parted her legs just as Kurt liked and reached for the dowel below.

  Punishment was swift and always painful. More damaging than the blows, however, was finding herself in the position in the first place. Just like when she was a kid and was spanked by an angry parent, the sting always seemed ten times stronger than reality. They may not have been as hard as strikes intended for her pleasure—when she was orgasmic, she couldn’t tell. But that was the nature of the act. Humiliation and shame drove as hard a point as the strike of Kurt’s flat, round punishment paddle.

  To give him his due, when it was punishment, there were no sensuous warm-ups; the five strokes started with fire and ended with fire, and there was no room for compromise in the middle. Kurt never held back, but gripped the paddle with his fist, drew back his arm and with a powerful forward motion struck dead on at the center of her ass.

  She was wise never to howl, as the cure for any protest would only be another strike.

  And five swats were enough for any slave.

  Knowing what she faced did nothing to assuage Regan’s fears—especially since it had been so many months since she’d been in this position. She waited now, clenching her cheeks, gritting her teeth, and peeking out of the corner of her eye to see when the first strike would land.

  Smack!

  “Yeeeeeaaaaaaahhh!” she silently screamed.

  The bite felt as though he’d singed her ass with fire. She bore down hard.

  Smack!

  “Seeeeeeeeess,” she seethed, still silently.

  Smack, smack! The next came fast, arriving with the same rough result.

  Smack!

  By the time Kurt landed the final strike, her ass felt raw and blistered and she couldn’t keep from crying out.

  “Do I give you another five?” he asked, his voice as cold as the basement air.

  “At your discretion, sir.”

  “Do I need to?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I may get lax, but that is my right, slave. You have none. You’re to be as on with your behavior as you were the first week I trained you. You have that clear?”

  (She remembered this little lecture, wondering if he had it memorized because it was always the same.)

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I won’t be disrespected or ignored in my house—I don’t care how tired and strained you are. Do you need a daily reminder for a while?”

  “No, sir.”

  She felt him back away, and the relief was welcome.

  “Then you’ll have to prove that to me. You can spend a few hours in the box to think about it.”

  She instantly cringed—though not so Kurt could see. Yet, as he helped her rise, he caught the pained expression on her face.

  “You have a question?”

  “Sir, if I could negotiate that order…”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “But please, may I speak?”

  “What?” He held her by the arm with fingers digging into her flesh.

  “Tennyson Hallock wants sketches for his fresco when I see him tomorrow.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to do them when I let you out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now on the floor.”

  Pulling a training collar from a row of dungeon tools, Kurt slipped the thick leather around her throat and snapped a leash to the heavy steel ring at its center. The click of metal had an emphatic sound, producing a feeling of dread and longing, equal in dimension.

  She crawled to her cage, tugged at the neck by one good jerk of the chain. Before she could climb inside the wood and wrought-iron punishment box, Kurt—with his temperament as rigid as her steel bondage—cuffed her hands in irons behind her and manacled her ankles. From there, he had to push and she wiggle on her hip to move to the center of the four by four space. With the box just three feet high, she couldn’t stand or even sit, but instead, was forced to lay immobile in whatever position she could most comfortably assume.

  It took trust and surrender to find the welcoming place in her inner world where being caged meant peace. Yet, as the iron bars clamped shut across the front of the cage and Kurt set the lock, she felt the finality bone deep. She was free… of the past, the present and her hopes of the future; of Kurt and Tennyson Hallock with his rampant sexuality, and being an interior designer or anything else life required of her. She swam happily in her nothingness.

  The only accommodation for her comfort was a small red pillow to cradle her head. (This was the one compromise Kurt offered after a two-hour punishment made her neck so sore that it ached for several days after. Kurt was strict, but not cruel.)

  “Get back in the space you belong, slave. Whatever you think about while you’re down here, make it about what it means to be who you are.”

  He knew that she didn’t think of anything when she was caged, that this was the one place where her mind could drift on an endless river far away from the rest of the world. Images would appear for awhile, but then they, too, would disappear. If she wasn’t cold, she often fell asleep. Yet, just as often, she didn’t sleep, but felt her bound wrists and her tethered ankles and the collar about her neck, and let the confinement breed a simple lust.

  Her ass hardly ached now—only if she tried to move. And then, her skin felt as though she had little more than a healthy sunburn.

  About eight o’clock that evening, Kurt pulled her from the cage, undid the manacles at her ankles and brought her upstairs. The smell of beans and shrimp and rice almost made her smile. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was; though now her stomach was grinding like an old grist mill. When Kurt set her meal on the floor, she didn’t think twice about kneeling in front of the bowl and bowing her head until she had her husband’s go ahead to eat.

  “I think I did a pretty good job with your recipe,” he said, rather drolly. “Give it a try.” She could sense his smirk broadening underneath his Masterful and merciless guise, as Regan bent forward and began to eat from the dish like a hound. If he was further amused by her decent to this animal act, she wouldn’t
see, as her eyes were too focused on the warm rice and the smell of Cajun spices. She would have eaten gruel and been happy; this was next to heaven. The meal went down so easily that she almost forgot that she was eating on the floor. Finishing, she sat back offering him a silly grin.

  “So, slut, you think you can be a slave without the manacles and the cage?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kurt dabbed her mouth like he would clean the mouth of a child.

  “And you can put together a few hours with no rebellion?”

  “I’m as soft as a kitten, sir.”

  “No claws?”

  “No, sir, no claws.”

  He fixed his eyes on her placid face for several seconds and then grimaced more lightheartedly. “I should just give you to Tenny and let him see what he could do with you.” She didn’t even quake, the threat was meaningless; and even if it weren’t, being given away would have seemed as natural now as any other slave-related act.

  “Is that what you plan to do… ”

  Kurt’s grimace turned into a smirk, as though he wanted to say yes.

  “No, that’s not what I’m doing.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I need for you to be my slave. That’s all I’ve ever asked. You have some difficulty with that, you’d better speak now.”

  “But with Tennyson Hallock…”

  “He’s your client. An eccentric. Do I expect you to submit to him? No. Do I expect you to be respectful of who he is? Yes. He’s a Master trainer and an impeccable Dom.”

  “He looked a little scruffy to me.”

  “Trust me, he cleans up well,” Kurt replied with a wry grin. “And he knows slaves. That’s why he’ll read you like a book—as well as I do. Maybe even better. But it doesn’t mean he’s allowed to take you into a scene or even put you on the floor. You are my slave, and until I give you to him—if I should give you to him—he knows the boundaries and respects them. Don’t give me reason to change my mind.”