My flesh was already tender from Mr. Stevenson’s spanking, and soon I was squirming on Mr. Vanier’s lap, unable to stay still as he struck me harder and harder. I began to gasp, small, yelping sounds with each smack.
Then his hand strayed down between my legs, which had fallen apart during the spanking. I slammed them together, completely pulled out of the moment by his presumption.
“That’s enough now, George,” Mr. Stevenson said abruptly, obviously having witnessed what he’d done. “Olivia’s had enough.”
Mr. Vanier’s hands fell away, and I stood, rather too quickly. The blood rushed from my head, and I swayed, black spots in front of my eyes for a few seconds.
Mr. Stevenson’s strong arms came around me. “You were wonderful,” he said softly. “Take your things and get dressed. Then come back to us, dear. We’ll be waiting.”
More later, because the bus, unlike Mr. Stevenson, won’t wait.
~*~
Tess was sprawled across Ryan’s bed, eyes closed, one hand partially covering her face, her dark hair spread over the pillow. The coverlet had fallen away to reveal one perfect breast, the nipple a pretty pink against soft, creamy skin. A breeze from the open window ruffled the curtains. Tess shifted but didn’t wake.
Ryan liked watching her sleep, her face so peaceful in repose. His cock stirred at the memory of last night—of Tess, naked and bound in chains, completely at his mercy, her eyes closed, her lips parted and glistening, her body covered in a sheen of sweat, her nipples dark red and engorged. He could almost hear her sweet, sexy moans as the leather lashed against her flesh.
The raw, dominant power coursing through his blood as he’d flogged her still resonated through his being. She had given herself completely to the situation—to him—in a way that left no room for doubt. She was born for this, as was he.
He’d been cautious at first, afraid of hurting her, of moving too quickly from pleasure to erotic pain. Though he loved what they were exploring together, it was new for him, too. But she had led him, in her quiet and sexy way, giving clear cues that she wanted what he was offering. The sex afterward had been explosive—more powerful than anything he’d known in his life. The flogging had been extended foreplay, and the thrill and intensity of the experience had opened his eyes to what true lovemaking could be.
And it was just the beginning.
He slipped from the bed and washed up in the bathroom, moving quietly so as not to disturb her. When he came back out, she was still fast asleep. He stood a while longer, admiring the lovely, sleeping girl, until his need for coffee got the better of him. In the kitchen, as he measured the beans and ground them, he lost himself in pleasant daydreams.
Until Tess had entered his life, Ryan had sometimes wondered if there was anyone out there for him. In the past, his relationships seemed to take two steps forward, and then one step back. When there started to be more backward progress than forward, one or the other of them would eventually call it quits. While he’d loved these other women, something had always been missing. In his heart of hearts, or no, more accurately, in his soul of souls, he’d been waiting for “the one.”
With Tess, there had been no false moves between them. The trust had been immediate and profound. For the first time, he understood on a gut level what a soul mate really meant. He was always learning something new and wonderful when he was with her, not only about her, but about himself. He loved her optimism and her zest for experience. Most of all, he loved her passion and her trust as they moved together deeper into BDSM.
Ryan was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of the garage door opening. What the hell? Peter wasn’t due back until the next day. Ryan panicked for a moment, thinking of the chains still hanging from the ceiling in the exercise room, the flogger lying where it had been dropped.
The door from the garage opened, and Peter stepped into the kitchen. “Surprise,” he said with a grin. “I’m back early.” Peter, who stood at six-foot five, was long-limbed and narrow. He sometimes reminded Ryan of a praying mantis, especially when he unfolded himself from a chair or car that was too small for him.
“What’re you doing here?” Ryan blurted. “You weren’t due back until tomorrow.”
“Hey, it’s great to see you too, pal.” Peter’s grin fell away as he added, “The trip was a bust and I called it quits. The prospective clients had no business plan and no clear idea of what they were doing. Worse, I suspect some book cooking.” Peter was a venture capital guy who found promising companies and helped them package themselves to get loans and capital. He was doing well now and had plans to move out soon and get a place of his own.
“Anyway”—he shrugged his overnight bag off his shoulder—“I’m hungry. What you got there?” He shook his head dismissively when Ryan held up a loaf of bread. “I need food, buddy. I’ll make some pancakes. You up for that?”
Ryan, who was always up for Peter’s cooking, said eagerly, “You bet.”
Peter leaned into the refrigerator and pulled out milk and eggs. “Ah, and these strawberries should do nicely.”
“Tess is here,” Ryan said. “She should be up soon, so make enough for her.”
Peter swung around to grin at him. “So you finally brought her home, huh? Must be serious. I can’t wait to meet her. I’m glad to hear she eats pancakes. Does she have a sister?” Peter’s girlfriend was on a constant diet, a source of frustration for Peter, who was a gourmet cook.
“I’ll go see if she’s up.” Ryan made a quick detour to grab the flogger and spreader bar from the exercise room. Maybe Peter, who didn’t go into that room much, wouldn’t notice the chains, and if he did, so what. It was Ryan’s house, after all. He could do as he liked.
Tess was in the shower, and he warned her Peter had come back early. “He’s making strawberry pancakes, though, so I told him I wouldn’t kill him.”
“As long as there’s real maple syrup, oh, and some bacon, I guess it’s okay,” Tess said with a laugh.
“I’ll go make sure,” Ryan said, his heart swelling with love.
Chapter 10
January 4, 1962
Holy cow. Is it really 1962 already? I swear, each year goes faster than the last. Mr. Stevenson gave me two weeks off for the kids’ Christmas break. Of course, the family time was wonderful, but, though I must be a terrible mother for admitting this, a part of me was longing to get back to work, or, more accurately, back to Mr. Stevenson. I felt guilty about this, naturally, and really tried to focus on the family. But there you are.
I need to get to what I wanted to write about. I did something I never thought I’d do. Not because I find it disgusting, but because Frank would have been horrified at the thought of me doing it. I suspect he isn’t horrified in general at the idea—I know about the Playboy magazines he keeps hidden in his workbench—but I think the concept of his wife doing it is more than he could handle.
Here’s what happened.
I’ve been back at work since Tuesday, and the first two days we were so busy catching up with mail and dictation that there was very little time for any hanky-panky. We began to ease back into some of our sexier routines after that, including several painful but exciting bouts with the ruler on my bare bottom. But then this morning, Mr. Stevenson upped the ante. Boy, oh boy, did he!
“Today,” he intoned in that formal way he has, “will be a new test of your submission. I am going to teach you the art of fellatio.”
Fellatio.
It sounds like a character in an Italian opera. My first reaction was to refuse outright. There was no way I was going to get on my knees and put my mouth on that man’s penis. And I said so, in no uncertain terms.
He lifted his eyebrows, a smile playing over his lips. He waited several beats and then said in a gentle tone, “Olivia, who do you belong to?”
I admit it—I love when he says that. There’s something so sexy and intense about it. And the way he says it, so soft and low, like a caress.
“You, Sir,” I
whispered, unable to help myself.
He nodded slowly and then asked, “Do you understand, when you refuse something I want, that you are saying, through your actions, that you don’t trust me? That whatever is going on between us is really just playacting to satisfy your sexual whims?”
I stared at him, at a loss for words.
He was right, of course. I love the game, as long as it’s my rules we’re playing by. I can pretend to be submissive all I want, but when he asks me to do something I don’t want to do, or am afraid to do, I balk.
He didn’t press me. Instead, he said, “I want you to take a day to think about it. I’m not going to force you. You will have to come to this of your own free will. Our exchange of power is a voluntary one. Here’s what I want you to think about—do you want to keep things just as they are between us, or are you ready to move to a higher plane of submission, one where you truly surrender, truly give of yourself?”
I didn’t reply, not sure what to say, though I could already feel some of my outraged resolve slipping away.
“We’ll revisit the subject in the morning, Olivia. When you’re ready, you will ask me if you may suck my cock.”
Suck his cock! It sounds so obscene. I’m not even sure it’s legal.
But that was the end of it. He spent most of the day in his office, the door closed, while I clacked away on my typewriter, did some filing and handled phone calls. At first, I was just plain annoyed. Sometimes I think he’s full of boloney. He puts these ideas in my head and couches them in lofty sentiment, just to get what he wants. But then, I get to thinking…
January 5, 1962
He has this way of working on me, like he’s planting these seeds in me that burst into flower when I’m not watching. I couldn’t stop thinking about this whole idea of what he wants me to do. A part of me is actually quite curious, from a physiological standpoint. What would it be like? Could I even do it?
And then there’s the psychological aspect. From what I know of this, the man kind of loses control. He’s in seventh heaven, completely under the spell of the woman who is pleasuring him. Talk about power! For once, I’d be the one in control. At least, as in control as one can be when on her knees.
I was considering it. I really was.
But, when he asked me if I was ready to submit to his wish, the words just popped out like popcorn. “No, Sir. I am not.”
January 8, 1962
When he came into the office this morning, after I’d spent the entire weekend silently obsessing about what I would or wouldn’t do, I blurted out, “I’m ready, Sir. I want to do it.”
In classic Mr. Stevenson style, he cocked his head slightly, as if confused, though I was damn sure he knew just exactly what I was saying. “I’m sorry, what? What is it you want to do?”
“You know,” I hedged. Was he really going to make me say it?
“I may know,” he replied calmly as he hung up his hat, “but I want you to tell me. What is it you want to do?”
“What we talked about last week. About your, uh, your cock,” I mumbled.
“Speak clearly, Olivia,” he said, not even trying to hide his smile. “Are you asking me for permission to suck my cock?”
Heat seared across my face, while at the same time, I can’t deny it, I got that achy feeling I get in my sex when he asserts control. He wouldn’t let up until I said the words he wanted to hear. Somehow, I forced myself to say, “I want to suck your cock, Sir.”
“That’s good to hear, Olivia. I’m pleased. I’ll call you in when I’m ready for you.”
Typical.
Anticipation is key, he likes to say. As I sat at my desk, trying to work, I could barely sit still. I stuck a hand in my panties right there at my desk. I rubbed a little and it felt good. I was thinking of heading into the bathroom to do the job properly, when he called out, “Olivia.”
Excited and nervous as a cat, I came into his office. Mr. Stevenson was standing in front of the couch. His jacket was off, but he was otherwise fully clothed. He sat down and said, “Come here and kneel before me, slave.”
My heart already going a mile a minute, I obeyed, letting that lovely net of submissive release settle over me.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and set it beside him. “Open my belt and my pants.”
I managed to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants without too much fumbling.
He pulled his shirt and undershirt out of the way and reached into the fly of his boxers. When he pulled out his cock, I nearly bolted from the room, but I gathered my courage and stayed put. I looked up at him, expecting some kind of direction, but he just said, “Go ahead.”
Taking a deep breath, I squeezed my eyes shut and stuck my tongue out in the general direction of his penis.
Mr. Stevenson chuckled. “For God’s sake, Olivia. It’s not going to bite you.” He took my head gently in his hands as he peered down at me. “I want you to make love to my cock, Olivia. To worship it as a sign of your devotion. You can do it. Do it for me. Relax and open your throat, and take pleasure in the knowledge that you’re pleasing me.”
His voice, his words—they struck a perfect, resonant chord in me, and my tensed muscles relaxed, my pulse slowing.
At first, I just kind of licked around the head and then drew my tongue along the shaft. He smelled good—like Ivory soap and his own musky essence. There was a fat vein on the underside that throbbed against my tongue.
He sighed with obvious pleasure and leaned back, his eyes closing.
I was instantly pleased with myself. I had a glimpse of what it must be like to dominate another—to take control and reduce someone to pure lust and need, as he so often does with me.
I continued a while longer, licking along the smooth, satiny skin, until he placed his hands on my shoulders and looked down at me. “You’re doing well, Olivia. Now, I want you to take it into your mouth. You may cradle my balls and the base of the shaft with your hands, gently. Take your time. Start with the head and move slowly down. Open your throat and stay relaxed. I understand this is new and difficult for you, and I’m honored with this gift of your submission.”
Suddenly, all I wanted was to please him.
I kept gagging when I tried to take it in too far. Still, whatever I was doing must have been okay, because it wasn’t long before he began to breathe heavily, and I could actually feel his balls tightening in my hand. I started to panic when I could tell he was about to climax. The thought of him ejaculating into my mouth was—is—so disgusting that I was afraid I’d end up spitting it out and making a scene.
He must have sensed my sudden tension in the rigidity of my body, because he said, “Don’t worry, darling, I won’t come in your mouth. Not this time.” Then he took my head in his hands and began to move his cock in and out of my mouth.
It was weird, because I’m used to being the one who loses control, but now it was he, my Master, who was moaning and panting. All at once, he pulled back and grabbed his handkerchief, his face twisted in orgasmic pleasure. With a cry, he spurted his seed into the handkerchief and then fell back against the cushions, still breathing heavily. He looked like such a sweet mess, disheveled and exposed.
Along with a rising sense of feminine triumph, I felt an extraordinary tenderness toward Mr. Stevenson.
Toward James.
He looked down at me, something raw and vulnerable in his face.
Then he whispered, “I love you.”
~*~
It was Sunday morning, and they’d slept in, a rare event for either of them. After another delicious breakfast prepared by Peter, they’d returned to the bedroom for some lovemaking and journal reading.
“Hey, don’t stop,” Ryan said as Tess closed the last of the notebooks. “I need to know what happens next.”
Tess flipped through the last few pages again, just in case she’d missed something, but they were blank. “That’s it.” A sense of loss moved through her at the thought that these were the last of Olivia’s
secret diaries. “That’s all she wrote.”
Ryan scrunched his face. “That can’t be it. She called him James. He said he loved her. I’m starting to understand why there are so many women who love romances. I’m totally into this.”
Tess laughed, but then shook her head as she stroked the cover of the pale blue notebook, sad to think the window into Olivia’s past was closing for them. Tess was going to miss the ritual of sharing Olivia’s story with Ryan.
“These are all I found in that strongbox,” she said, recalling the day of her discovery. “But you have to be right. That can’t be all there was between them. After all, he called the house right after she died.”
“Do you still have access to your grandmother’s house?”
Tess nodded. “Yeah. I still have a key. It’s about to be put up for sale, though. My mom has ordered a dumpster and they’re going to toss everything left that can’t be sold when the place goes on the market.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed with determination. “Then we better get over there pronto and tear that attic apart, just in case you missed something the first time around. If there are more of these precious gems hidden away, we need to find them before they’re inadvertently thrown out.”
“Or found by someone else, like my mom,” Tess said, catching Ryan’s sense of urgency. “Let’s go.”
After over two hours of scouring every nook and cranny, not only of the attic, but the basement and every room in the house, they were forced to admit defeat. “If they existed,” Ryan said, “they don’t anymore. We’ll never get the full story of the Master and the secretary.”
“Well, we know one thing for sure—my grandparents never split up, so they kept the affair secret. You know,” she added, staring contemplatively out the kitchen window, “I think that last entry was a game changer. The relationship between them was shifting to something a lot more intimate. It’s one thing to write a journal about some kinky games played at the office, but I imagine it would be quite another to document a real love affair.”
The Master & the Secretary (Finding Master Right Book 2) Page 12