Beg Me

by Lisa Lawrence

  “You’re resisting,” he said.

  “It hurts!”

  But nothing close to my threshold.

  “’Course it hurts!” he laughed. “You want down?”

  I gritted my teeth. “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You little—” I thought he lost his temper for a moment, but he said it so calmly. Another slap, and shit, it stung. My buttocks were on fire. But there was also a rising pleasurable warmth.

  “You belong to me. Say it.”

  “I belong to you!”

  “You’re my slave,” he said. Asking me to recite.

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly he came around to where I could see him, and he took two fingers and pinched my nipple. At first it was pleasant, and then his palm squeezed a handful of my breast, hard. It hurt.

  “Say it,” he said. “You want down?”

  “No!”

  “Then say it—”

  “I’m your slave—”

  “Ask me to fuck you.”

  A moment’s hesitation.

  “Aaagghhhh!”

  I shook, the chains rattling, with the blow.

  “Make yourself come,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “Orgasm’s mental,” he said quickly. “Make yourself come! Right now!”

  “I can’t—I—I—”

  Another slap of the paddle, and as tears ran down my cheeks and I tasted salt in the corners of my mouth, I realized that I wanted to come. I was aroused by what was happening to me, but I couldn’t intellectualize it. It was raw and primitive, and I heard the slurp of my pussy with my juices, and I’m hanging here, I thought, vulnerable, completely vulnerable. A distant echo of familiar pleasure, and I needed him inside me—

  He knew it too.

  I felt the head of his cock penetrate me. As I moaned with the satisfying increasing fullness of him, he sunk his nails into my thighs, which didn’t hurt as much as the paddle but did…something…I was feeling too much as he thrust inside me. My ass ached at the same time, my breast smarting and a mild bruise already blooming.

  I felt him swell as he was about to orgasm, and then at the last second he pulled out of me, and a stream of sticky, hot spunk flew across my belly and hit the underside of my breasts.

  If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn he knew I was riding the crest up to my own climax, that he had deliberately cheated me of it. But so few guys had a clue as to what you felt at the time that I thought I was imagining things.

  You couldn’t call what he did making love or even having sex. He fucked me. He didn’t even fuck me like an animal in a “take me, you beast” sense. It felt intimate and twisted, his hands caressing me as he thrust away, exploring my body and kissing my breasts with almost a worshipful fervor, and then when he spilled all over me, I could sense it was deliberate.

  Then he left me like that, without a word, leaving me to hang there with the scent of our mixed smells in my nostrils and his spunk drying on my skin, cooling like a brand. I could smell my own perspiration. My ass hurt. My breast hurt. I felt dirty and forgotten.

  I came in the privacy of the dungeon, chains rattling as my body quivered.

  When he returned half an hour later, he still didn’t say a thing to me but had a wet cloth and a bucket of water mixed with some aloe soap. He washed my pussy.

  “Hey, what about the rest of me?” I whispered.

  “You don’t have permission to talk,” he snapped.

  And without warning, with sudden, terrifying force, he slapped my ass with his open hand.

  It wasn’t hard, but since I was already sore—

  I’ve been accidentally punched in the dojo. I’ve been kicked when I train. I’ve fought with guys who didn’t go by gentlemanly rules at all. But there is something so raw that brings you right back to the very core of your own emotional development to have a strike on your ass like that. Worse than the paddle.

  It was meant to cause pain, but even more to focus my attention. He did it expertly, in a way that left only the afterburner heat and memory of pain but no lasting bruise.

  I felt him come on me again. I didn’t even hear or sense that he had jerked off, and he hadn’t been rubbing against me. I don’t know how he did it, but out of my peripheral vision, his cock had stiffened to its impressive ultimate length, and I received another shower of cum over my breasts and near my ribs. For a moment I only had the sensation of the sticky warm liquid on me, drying, staining me again, hardening.

  I hadn’t even noticed the dildo he’d brought in.

  I knew he was watching and listening with a surgeon’s attention to the sound of my breath, the reactions of my skin, my nipples, and I don’t know why, but suddenly my muscles rebelled in spasms, shaking uncontrollably as I tried in vain to break loose. It was like I needed to playact escape to heighten my own pleasure, to feel the restraint of my bonds. He patiently worked the dildo to make me come three times in succession until I asked him to stop.

  “Beg me,” he whispered.

  And made me come all over again.

  Then he bathed me with tender care.

  With my wrists still bound, he made me squat over a makeshift bedpan and pee in front of him.

  It wasn’t humiliating, but it strips you to the core to have one of the ultimate privacies quietly taken away. He wiped me with tissue, removed the pan, and washed his hands in the nearby basin. Came back and kissed me like a child. And I did cry, broken.

  He let me down out of my bonds and made me stay in a small cage. I couldn’t stand up—forced to move around on my hands and knees. There was a toilet but no privacy. A futon on a low wooden pallet.

  On the third day, he unlocked the cage and beckoned me out, and then he told me to bend over a desk where yet more piled, dusty book remainders were stacked. As he started to spank me, I felt my mound against the desk, and as the heat rose in my buttocks, I shuddered from an overpowering orgasm. “Aaaahhh…Aaaahhh…” My wrist unconsciously slipped behind my back, a primal desire to be restrained. I sobbed as I came. And I understood.

  Wave after wave of cathartic ecstasy. As his hand slapped my buttocks and my juices flowed.

  “Make yourself come,” he ordered. “Touch yourself.”

  I started to play with my clit. I whined and keened with release, and suddenly his strong hands locked me into a new set of small leather cuffs. Face against the wall, leaning over the desk, his angry red cock slipped into me so easily. I felt his teeth gnaw on my shoulder blade as he shoved his rod in, and he stayed, and my pussy muscles contracted hard around his fullness and pulsed, and I moaned as if I were reciting an unintelligible prayer.

  “Ohhhh…Fuck, fuck,” I said after a moment.

  Still in me. So hard.

  And I understood.

  You think submissive means passive. No. No, bullshit, wrong, bloody nonsense. I gave my power to him. I let him have it, mine to give. And I was so sick of running around, hustling for work, drumming up business, having to go out and investigate, taking names and kicking ass, tired of strategizing and planning for my daily bread, being Strong Teresa. Someone else take care of me for once. Someone else. Make the decisions. Care for me. Fill me. Oh, God, fill me.

  Hot down here. Sweating, our bodies slipping and sliding, the feel of him against the cheeks of my ass, his cock still so hard, and my wrists in these cuffs. Controlling. Deciding. I could feel the pulse in the hard spear of him, and it’s like he was inside me but enveloping me, and I can let go, I can let it all go now. He grunted as his climax started, and I felt another one of my own.

  We stayed like that for a full two minutes.

  I went back into that cage willingly. I looked forward to him bathing me from then on. Every experience, from him hand-feeding me through the bars of the cage to the way he tenderly closed the cuffs on my wrists to suspend me again, each and every one charged with erotic nuance.

  When I heard the door to the basemen
t open, I knelt in readiness for him.

  I crawled out when he called me.

  I caressed and played with the fuzz of his pubic hair and sucked him into my mouth, living for the knowledge that he would swell to the laps of my tongue.

  I didn’t need to do anything but obey. It was all up to him.

  Yes, I understood. And I was now in a constant state of arousal.

  Fuck me, I bleated far too often.

  “Beg me.”

  “Congratulations,” he said after ten days. “You’re halfway through your training.”

  I sat there, shocked for a moment. It felt like I had been down in that basement for ages.

  “What do we say?”

  “Thank you, sir.” My response was instant.

  “I bought you a present,” he said.

  It was a beautiful red dress, a little cocktail number, the kind I always loved. I gushed my thanks, and it was like a stranger inhabiting my body. We went to dinner (I wore my new dress) and then came back to his bookshop, which surprised me, as I’d expected him to take me home to his apartment. I had got it into my head that I had “graduated” to a new level of trust and intimacy with him. Wrong.

  From out of nowhere he produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He poured us drinks, and I decided to press my luck.

  “You going to tell me now about this…Sarcophacan Temple of Nubian Princes?”

  “About them,” he said, his face pensive. “If I help you get in, they’re gonna want you to take some tests at a private clinic. They’re promiscuous but only within the group. So they, like, regularly check for AIDS and for other STDs.”

  I nodded. I could have told him this was a more familiar situation for me on a case than he could have imagined.

  “What the hell is a ‘sarcophacan temple,’ for instance?”

  His eyes fell to the floor a moment, a smile playing on his lips, and then he chuckled. “Well, you know there’s no such word, right?”

  “Yeah, I guessed as much,” I said. “What’s the joke?”

  “The joke is on me. On all of us. Like any cult, there’s got to be a backstory, and I guess those of us who think we’re really smart fall for it harder. When I first got involved, our wise and powerful leader, Isaac, he laid this whole big legend on us. Said the wisdom of what and who we really are was rediscovered through this BDSM scene played in a temple on a vacation, spirits inhabiting him and his first submissive partner. Like there’s a kind of oral tradition to bondage, to the training of dominants and submissives for sadomasochistic relationships. That gets around the sticky issue of manuscripts or bibles or texts, doesn’t it? After all, if it’s all oral, passed down from the Man, can’t argue with it, can you?”

  I didn’t say anything, letting him get through it in his own time.

  “Thing is,” he went on, “I own a bookstore, you know? I can look things up. And I went through the stock I have on sarcophaguses of Egypt, all the technical archaeology stuff. There’s no variation on the word. Isaac kept saying to me, ‘Well, of course, they don’t got it. Why would you expect ’em to have it?’ And it wasn’t until I was out of the group that I figured out where he coined that name.” He rolled his eyes. “He took it from an old 1960s Marvel comic. He must have liked the sound of it. It sounds impressive, doesn’t it? Sarcophacan.”

  “You ever hear of L. Ron Hubbard?” I asked gently.

  Oliver winced. I don’t think he enjoyed the comparison. “Scientology.”

  But all I commented was, “Hubbard wrote science-fiction stories. My brother likes sci-fi and comics, and he showed me how the first Dianetics stuff was published in a sci-fi magazine.”

  “Terrific.

  “The whole backstory thing, all the supposed legends,” said Oliver. “They really burned Craig when he started to look closely at them. He lost Anna, and that started his doubts, but then he started questioning it all. He was like me—ashamed that he’d swallowed this bullshit. I remember…Yeah. He was so bitter. I remember he said to me that everybody has skeletons, and he was going to go rooting around in Isaac’s closet but good. Find the man he really was.”

  Huh. Maybe he had.

  “You do know what he wanted that French book for, don’t you?” I asked. “The one about Vietnam.”

  “Yes,” he admitted at last. “Isaac was kind of proud of his dad for getting this award over there in ’Nam.”

  “What award?”

  “I’m not sure what it’s called. Isaac told us his dad got this Medal of Honor thing from the Paris government because he helped evacuate these hang-on-to-the-bitter-end French colonial types. He saved them from, uh…from this resort community or something attacked by the Vietcong. Said a French general pinned it on his daddy’s chest.”

  I had to smile at the audacity of this whopper. Not an easy thing to check from here, and I suppose that was the idea. After all, if Isaac had told them his father had got the Bronze Star or the U.S. Congressional Medal of Honor or something, those were easy for an American to look up.

  “And you bought this rubbish?”

  Oliver turned defensive. “Hey, to be honest, I didn’t think about it too much. He told me all this when I didn’t doubt him at all.”

  No wonder, then, that Craig Padmore had picked up a French history of Vietnam. He had tried to give Isaac the benefit of the doubt. But one dip in even the English history texts would have let him know it was impossible for any French general to have pinned a medal on Isaac Senior’s chest.

  The last of France’s soldiers left Vietnam in 1956—years before the Americans even stepped into the picture.

  Isaac, of course, could have come back and claimed that he was mistaken about this part of the story or that his dad remembered it wrong but that he still got a French medal somehow. But—

  Big deal. This tall tale certainly wasn’t enough to ruin the cult leader and bring him down. It made sense that Craig had gone sniffing into the medal story, probably looking up anecdotes about the last of the French living in South Vietnam. But this wasn’t the revelation from the book that had “helped him” so much.

  “Sarcophacan temple,” I muttered. Jeez. “Couldn’t this Isaac come up with something a little less obvious? I’m not taking the mickey—I mean, you checked it yourself and saw through it.”

  And after I explained “taking the mickey” and he said, “oh,” he folded his arms and offered, “Yeah, but I still bought it for a long time. It’s not the backstory that holds people, it’s what they do…. Isaac doesn’t come across as if he’s well educated. Don’t get me wrong—he’s smart. He’s goddamn cunning, and you see that right away. I could always tell he reads, but it’s like there are gaps for him. I don’t think he ever went to college. And he never told me where he went to high school.”

  I mulled over that one. Interesting.

  “Besides,” Oliver went on, “Danielle fills in all the blanks anyway.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Danielle’s his ‘duchess.’ There is only one duchess in the whole group, and that’s her, just like he’s the only duke in the group. He’s big picture, she’s fine details. Whenever there’s a squabble over the dorm-room living—they all live at the mansion—Danielle sorts it out. Be too embarrassing if they had to bring Isaac into it. Like showing Dad how petty you can be! She assigns the work tasks. She gives out allowances…. She’s their big S and M mother superior. Here—”

  He tapped his computer and pulled up a digital photo. “They don’t like pictures being taken of them, but I managed to get this when everybody was chillin’ and cool about it.”

  I looked. He pointed out a few of the devotees, gave names that meant nothing to me, then: “And there are Isaac and Danielle.”

  Isaac Jackson was a handsome fellow with a skin tone of light copper, and he looked to be in his late thirties, early forties. With his head shaved, attention was drawn down to his large dark almond eyes, his sharp cheekbones, and to the finely trimmed goatee, blacker than Oliver’s
and with no gray in it. He smiled for the camera, but there was something formal, something austere in his expression. He looked muscular too, his chiseled biceps revealed by his tanktop—they gave me a clue to an obsessive personality.

  “He looks mixed race,” I commented.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t bring that up to him or anybody.”

  “Why not?”

  Oliver frowned. “Isaac has his own distinctive take on race. He’s…You’ll hear all about it once you’re in. Don’t get the wrong idea—he doesn’t blame kids of mixed couples. It’s more his, uh, well, his crusade over the treatment of half-castes.”

  “Half-castes?” I echoed.

  “Yeah, he really calls ’em that.”

  Not a term I’d expect an American guy to use, especially if he’s supposed to be sympathetic to the issues and the lot of mixed-race people.

  In the photo, Isaac’s arm was around Danielle. Danielle, in charge of the “fine details.” Long black hair, green eyes, and something quite a ways east of Europe in the features, something exotic. White girl. She was beautiful. Best guess was that she was past thirty, but I’d bet she could pass with some people for a few years younger. Certainly gravity hadn’t started any ravages yet.

  Reason I could tell was that she wore this peculiar green cotton garment—it looked like a costume for a porn flick about Amazons. One breast exposed, and very nice it was too. A little larger cup than mine, nicely defined small pink areola and nipple. And no one else in the shot seemed to care or be conscious of this, especially since one of the other girls, looking about twenty-one, very light-toned black chick, was nude.

  “So these are Danielle and Isaac,” I said. “Give me her last name.”

  “Tidemand,” he answered.

  I laughed. “Really? Has she ever mentioned her father’s name?”

  “Dolph, I think.”

  I shook my head and chuckled. “Let’s try again.”

  “What?” he asked defensively.

  “Adolph Tidemand is the name of a famous Norwegian painter,” I explained.

  And as he stared at me, I arched my eyebrows. Had he forgotten already? “You’re the one who found out I worked in the art world,” I reminded him. “She looks exotic, yeah, but I doubt she’s got much Nordic blood in her. Well, forget that BS name.”