Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “Seeing that my interest was piqued, my mentor/friend started to school me. He didn’t let me wield a whip, bind a single ankle or even say a word until I’d seen him work. I practically lived with him for a year—at the very least, I was at his house every day observing.”

  “But wasn’t that frustrating?”

  “Yes. Completely. I took out my frustrations on my girlfriend… but there was no kinky stuff with her, and my needs demanded more. After that year, my mentor gave me Nikki, one of his newest slaves. He took me through every step with her—bondage, ropes, mind games, whipping, anal play—everything, until I had her mastered and loving me. She was sweet, tender, and a painslut. Pretty easy for a novice, who could make a few missteps in the dungeon and not frighten her away. Truth was, I didn’t make many mistakes. I took whip in hand, said the words, fashioned the ropes, knowing exactly what I was doing. Maybe it was all that observation… On the other hand, I think I’m a natural master. My instincts with women are unfailing. I believe I always knew that; but I allowed myself to be led, just to be sure.

  “Another year later, my mentor let me loose of his tether and I was on my own.”

  “And Nikki?” Regan wondered.

  “I grew away from her. She was too mindless, too in need of immediate control. My mentor liked his slaves that way, but I wanted ones with minds. I wanted to be with them after the scenes were over. I wanted more than to be a pompous asshole. I had the temerity to think that slaves can be more than whipping posts and grateful servants, that they are more than pretty ornaments and endorphins to match my need to abuse them. I think big. I don’t like boundaries. I like making up my own rules and deciding for myself how the women I master can serve me. I’d get bored with most of what I see in dungeons and clubs and on the Internet now.”

  “What more do you need?” she wondered.

  “This. What we’re doing now. I want you to know me, Regan. I don’t want to be so mysterious that you can’t let your guard down completely. I expect to own you, but not because I know how to crack a whip and make your body sing, but because you give yourself to the man I am—no illusions, no romantic ideal here. I am just a man… nothing more.”

  “But you’re still a mystery…” she added.

  “Am I? Or is it what I do for you that you can’t predict that is so mysterious?”

  She smiled, thinking of all the small surprises that teased her days: the quick phone calls arranging dates, the pointed warnings, the winks, the sharp cold eyes and the feather-light touch of his hand on her chin or brow. “I’m not sure what it is, sir. Sometimes, you comfort me so—I fall into you as if I am your shadow. And then, when I least expect, you frighten me. I don’t know what’s coming next that sends raw thrills careening through me. No, I can’t predict what you will do.” But she could predict his substance, which was as steady and secure from the moment they met until this moment sitting huddled together in the wilds, watching the fire smoke and crackle, and the day end beyond the far horizon.

  His restraint intrigued her. He made her wait.

  ***

  The next three days, Regan spent on the fresco. She was sent to the scaffolding as soon as she arrived in the house—nothing more was said about Tennyson’s new project in his dungeon, which didn’t worry her the first day, or the second. She was rather glad to be alone in her roost with her paints and thoughts—and there were very few thoughts in her mind. Focusing on the art, there was no need to think, except to decide which color she needed to use next. Only when the hours got long and her back began to ache would she consider stopping. Though, she wouldn’t stop without Tennyson calling her down.

  On the third day, her mind was not as empty nor her feelings quite so lost. She sensed something odd about the long uneventful days. Perhaps Tennyson was simply preoccupied with other projects—but it seemed more than that.

  “Tennyson, have you decided against the changes in your dungeon?” she finally had the guts to ask at lunch that afternoon.

  “No. That decision was made some time ago. Have you thought about my ideas?”

  “Yes, I have. How could I not?”

  “And…”

  “It’s easily doable. You’ve certainly given much more input on this than you have the rest of the changes you’ve wanted to make.”

  “Ah, then my little psychodrama worked?”

  She smiled, feeling her crotch get instantly warm at the thought of those remarkable moments, eyes closed and listening as he fantasized her into cumming. In the same breath, a wave of guilt surfaced to mar the delicious memory. She hadn’t wanted those memories to return until that day had been wrapped up tightly in the past—pushed away to some forgotten land where she could romanticize the facts of it. Maybe the guilt wouldn’t have surfaced if she’d waited longer—much longer. A week or two, maybe even a month.

  Now, the remembrance was so mixed that she wished she’d never mentioned the dungeon. It was a foolish mistake.

  “Yes. That was quite a picture you painted,” she managed to say with some conviction and little trembling in her voice.

  “And you did get into it,” he observed.

  “What submissive woman wouldn’t?”

  His snicker was quite evil for what it implied to her. “I reached a little far with that one, but I do want my projects steeped with passion.”

  She hadn’t seen this wicked smile in three days, or the nefarious twinkle in his eye. Those measures to lure her appeared as seductive as ever. And the guilt became more complicated with each breath of lust she drew.

  “Should I start making the dungeon sketches now?”

  He stopped what he was doing—eating the remains of his sandwich—and stared her down. Nothing new. Though she wondered if there was something more behind that stare… was she forgetting something? Was there a piece of lettuce stuck in her teeth, or paint in her hair? Or was there an ‘A’ tattooed to her forehead? Did he see the guilt, or was this just her imagination?

  “Keep dreaming, Regan. We’ll get to the dungeon in a day or two. I think I want the fresco finished first.”

  ***

  After the whipping, the fire and Kurt’s confession, the two returned to the country inn and their tiny room with the big four poster bed. She imagined herself tied to the corners with scarves, her eyes blindfolded and her mouth gagged. She imagined her master hovering over her naked torso with a fine erection about to impale her between her thighs.

  But there was something else in Kurt’s mind once he closed the door and set the latch. As she stood with her back to him, she could feel his body near hers and moving closer, very slowly like a cat creeping through the shadowy dark.

  “Yieech!” He’d grasped her neck in his fist, then pushed her to the bed while pawing her ass. Reaching around, he unzipped her jeans.

  The thrill of being taken shot through her system in seconds. Nerve endings, hair, skin lips, ass … crotch trembled in amazement as he efficiently removed her clothes, until she was stripped bare.

  “How would you bow to your master, Regan?”

  He’d pulled her to him, so they were standing face to face—Kurt still fully dressed, she thoroughly naked. Hearing his question, she dropped to her knees, and tucked her head to the floor, feeling sure that the steamy liquid from her crotch would be dripping from her to a puddle below. It took every effort not to move with the sensuous music playing deep within her.

  Kurt viewed her glorious mop of golden hair, the nape of her neck stretched downward to her delicately arched spine, ending with the two cheeks of her fair ass. He acknowledged the submission she offered him, wondering how much longer he could wait to own her. By the time she gave up her freedom, it would be no more than a formality—it would be no more than a formality now.

  But there was some unexplainable thrill taking this tease to the far edge of possibilities. He could not disregard the way the expectancy and the suspense kept their longing and desire so real—like some freshly tasted fruit exploding in their m
ouths. Could they go on like this forever, or did the scenario have to change? Would they have to be Master and slave? Were they required to be Owner and owned?

  “Come with me Regan,” he finally said. He picked her up by her hair and took her to bed, where inside the sheets they cuddled away the remains of the day’s cold. As he held her, his cock began to stiffen. His feelings flowered as easily, pouring love to the soul he knew he’d soon commit to forever.

  She, already feeling owned and cherished, let his essence rise inside her. She needed nothing but to be with him, and to feel his body moving nakedly with hers. His one hand glided along her pubic mound and her thighs, nails raking slowly over the skin. She replied to him in gasps and hums, sensuously responding to one demand and the next.

  He targeted her nipples for a time, giving each one a firm squeeze before moving to some other torture. Then he mauled her breasts in his palms and listened to the sound of her breathing intensify. When he thrust her toward his cock, she took it in her mouth, easing it down her throat, then pulling it out where she circled the head with her tongue—over and over, she continued as though she planned to finish him right there.

  As the blowjob progressed, she mounted his groin, so her fanny danced before his eyes. He slapped it pink, watching it wiggle as he did.

  “Oh, yesssss, sir,” Regan took a break from sucking to shudder with ecstatic zeal.

  Noting her excitement, he spanked her ass red, though she didn’t miss a rhythmic beat working his hot fat cock. Precum dotted her lips, smearing across his chin. And she was just about to dive back on the hulking member when he pulled her around so they were lying face to face, kissing.

  Kurt’s mouth opened wide on hers just as he stuffed his cock into her milky portal. He could consume her now, take her liberty, ask and receive anything he wanted from her—and he’d have it for himself. His feelings made him bold, and his intuition didn’t fail him.

  Instead of finishing off his climax in her cunt, he turned her around, and pulled her to her hands and knees. After fingering her rear door for several seconds and finding it surprisingly yielding, he replaced his fingers with his cock and opened the tight place wide.

  “Oh, my gawd yessss,” she hissed as her ass shook to its depths.

  She wanted more, and he gave her more. He pummeled harder and faster until he was out of breath and Regan was nearly exhausted. His endurance was almost frightening, but it was blessed as well. In the midst of the melee, she started to beg, “S-sir, p-please, s-sir please.”

  “Please what?”

  “M-may I-I cum now, s-sir?”

  “Only if you do it now!” he snapped. He was unloading himself in her ass, rendering everything he had into those depths—apt metaphor for what was true about their relationship.

  Ah! The quiet afterwards can be peace—though it can be filled with expectation and urgency. Regan remembered her times with Jon, being grateful that this lover wouldn’t be leaving her alone just when she wanted most to have a man’s arms to love her.

  As their breathing eased and their bodies enjoyed the sensuous aftershocks, the two stared into the ceiling—looking much like regular lovers, without the burdens of Master and slave to shape their opinions. Kurt dozed not needing to think of anything, while Regan reviewed her life and measured every relationship against this one. Would he take her freedom now that he’d made love to her? What more could he know of her than this? What more could she give? What more could he ask?

  The room was now dark, as the last vestiges of daylight had drifted into the night. There were few stars to illuminate anything—especially their small room and the big bed.

  As she lay waiting for her lover to revive, Regan mulled over the one unanswered question still disturbing her peace… it floated through her brain now and again, then floated away. Strangely, it hadn’t really mattered that she had an answer. But now, she wanted, even needed his response.

  When she heard him stir, she whispered quietly, “You awake?”

  “Humm, yes,” he said sleepily, “and you are too?”

  “Very much.”

  “Something on your mind?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just wondering, have you told me the darkest of your sexual fantasies?”

  He thought a minute, not because he needed to think the reply, but because he was wondering why she was asking him now. “No, I haven’t,” he finally said. He seemed to be coming more alive. “I suppose you want to hear it?”

  “You promised it was as nasty as the nunnery.”

  “To my mind it is.”

  Regan’s body quickened hearing him say so and she turned on her side to listen better.

  “I don’t think of it often now…” he started, “though the fantasy used to beat at my brain every time I was aroused. When I was younger—in my twenties—I’d walk down a city street, looking at the women who attracted me and wondering what their sexual urges might be like. I’d often fixate on a particular woman for several minutes… on a bus, the subway, or sitting in a restaurant—the longer I had to consider her the more elaborate the fantasy became.

  “I’d soon feel myself walking inside her as if I knew her well; and knowing her well, I’d figure the best way to manipulate her mind. I imagined myself approaching her, charming her with a smile I knew would woo her. I learned very early that I could have a desirable woman eating out of my hand in minutes—without looking like a smarmy sleaze. It must be my face that looks so sincere.

  “Once I have her wooed, I snare her into my scheme… I take her home, lock the door and start my tease. It begins with her eyes closed, my warm breath on her cheek, she’s giggling… a little terrified but trusting. I speak to her softly… joking with her so that she’s at ease. I stand behind her, running my hands along her shoulders, across her back and down her arms, until I reach her wrists. Tying them is the first tricky move, but this girl is so mesmerized by my soothing voice that she’s still in the game, thinking she’s safe.”

  “But she’s not?”

  “You must be reading my mind.”

  “I’d like to be that woman,” she replied.

  “Too bad I can’t turn back the clock.” Kurt snickered and so did she. “It gets much worse… even if it’s not in a nunnery.”

  Regan felt her crotch starting to explode as her imagination allowed the pictures to develop.

  “I tease her more, very lightly, then secure the blindfold. I can feel her shudder, and as my hands start their way about her body, I know she’s getting very hot. As a collar goes around her thin neck, she begins to wonder, but her flesh is feeling much too charged to stop me. When I push her to her knees, her mouth opens naturally to take my erection—she’s experienced working cock so this feels natural and easy for her. It makes sense; even the bondage feels exhilarating as she’s never had anything so remarkable happen to her.

  “I let her spend some time getting used to the feel and smell of me, then pulling her to her feet, I undo the handcuffs and replace them with leather wrist restraints. Each arm is pulled above her and attached to a bar hanging from the ceiling. She starts to panic, but I soothe her down until she’s eased enough not to cry. But now her faith in me is fast diminishing—I place a ballgag in her mouth and fix it tightly. Though still soothing her with platitudes, my lectures have little value; she knows now that she’s been captured and is at my mercy.

  “I watch her writhe, exhilarated by the beauty of her struggle. There is no stopping my game; the source of my desire has been triggered. I cut away her clothes as she starts to moan, though her writhing fight only arouses me further. I keep on, warning her not to struggle too much unless she wants the knife to cut her skin. Hearing her muffled shrieks, I try for more… my lips at her ear, mocking and taunting her attempts to get free.”

  “What do you say to her?” Regan asked.

  “I tell her how she’s in my power, and that I will hurt her because it excites me. Once I have her pe
trified of me I begin to play with her body… running my hands over her breasts, pinching nipples and slapping her tits. I move to her crotch to see if she’s wet—an important gauge I’ll use to decide how far I’ll go. Finding her pussy rapidly dampening, I know I have a closet masochist under my command. I’ll take every bit of fire she exudes and make it burn hot. In the end, she will want to fall at my feet in wonder and gratitude for the gift I’m giving—at least that is my belief….” Kurt stopped as a smile broadened on his face. “Does this sound too much like a naïve kid?”

  “It sounds like heaven to me.”

  “Of course, slut, you’re a natural slave.”

  “So, you beat her?”

  “I work her body, yes. Teasingly at first, until she finally accepts the sensuousness as her friend and her fear begins to subside. I might even throw in a few words of reassurance—though I often forget that part. This is fantasy, and I’m very cruel in fantasy.”

  “Will she love or hate the beating?”

  “Usually both. Though it’s certain that her nerves will be fried by the time I finish with the flogger, the bullwhip and the crop. Her body will be marked with thick red welts that will linger for days—and bruises that will last weeks. Exhaustion will set in, and because I want to extend her misery, I will bring her down, keeping her cuffed, naked and bound all night. She’ll sleep at the foot of the bed with her collar tied to a foot post. And in the morning, I’ll abuse her more.

  “It’s an endless fantasy, Regan. Sometimes I toss the bitch aside, leaving her to wonder about what maniac captured her. Half of her will want a reprisal, but the other half will remember the pleasure… she won’t know how to live her life after what she’s experienced.

  “Sometimes, I see her again and she comes back begging. Sometimes I take her again; but more often, I shoo her away as though she’s a meaningless piece of meat. Other times, probably my favorite permutation of the fantasy, I keep my chattel against her will, forever. She becomes my slave, lives her life bound and often gagged, living under the threat of terrible pain should she attempt any meaningful revolt—which could never succeed. I give my victim just enough pleasure to keep her physically satiated, and she becomes too weak to want anything else but serving me…”