by Aya DeAniege
That fire though?
The chance to beat it out of him?
It sent a shudder through my being.
The fire of before returned, stoked once more. My fingertips tingled with anticipation.
I reached out and placed a finger on his chin. He followed my finger as I moved his head upward to face me. That fire was still in his eyes. His jaw clenched, but he made no move to pull away or be disobedient in any way.
“Why are you a criminal?”
“For taking part in the riots,” he said.
Something like eight years previous, the slums had rioted. Young adults had risen in protest over the deaths of their brothers and sisters at the hands of rich elite.
They had protested the law trying to dismiss charges against a serial killer.
They had been scared. They had reacted the way humans were bound to do.
The government had reacted as a government did over a minority group. They sent in the military. They executed the leaders and rounded up anyone they could find to serve in prison, but it had been more than that as well.
I had heard the whispering and a few of the secrets and rumours.
“Lawfully, that’s why, but what’s the real reason?” I asked.
Mr. Wrightworth knew that I wouldn’t abide a criminal being in my home. Even if he had been tied up.
I had a problem with any man who had been violent. Whether physically towards others or by removing their free will.
“I tried to stop the rape of my sister.”
“Tried,” I said. “Tried how?”
“By shooting a military man in the face with the assault rifle he had just used to kill my father.”
“And how long do you have left to serve?”
“Sixteen months, three days, and about four hours.”
“After this, you’ll, what? Continue taking on contracts? Be a sex slave for the next year and a bit?”
“Something like that. Unless this one serves poorly. The Master was very clear that if this one were bad in any fashion that displeased the Mistress, this one would spend the remainder of its sentence at his feet, serving as he would please to have this one.”
“And you’re fine serving as a sex slave?”
“This one is prepared to be used as the Mistress chooses. Performing sexually would not be a problem for this one if it involved the Mistress.”
“Please stop saying ‘the’ in front of ‘mistress’ it makes me sound like an object.”
“This one apologizes, Mistress.”
“I’m going to call you Honey, and you’re going to stop saying ‘this one’ in reference to yourself, you will use the proper pronoun,” I said, setting my hands on my hips. “You are not allowed to be a sissy just because your name is Honey. Lots of women call their boyfriends ‘honey,’ and it doesn’t make them a sissy. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Honey, have you ever been beaten?”
He gave me a look like he couldn’t believe I asked that. I just watched him in response. He looked away once more, his frown deepening.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“A real beating, not some rich woman with her shoe.”
“Yes, Mistress. By men meaning to do harm.”
“Did you take the prison sentence first?” I asked.
“No, Mistress. We were all placed in prison to start. The Master was quite graphic about what he would do to me if I failed in this. I would rather go back to prison. At least there the guards would try to stop the destruction.”
“Are you okay with me using you as I please?”
Again, that puzzled look, except this time he was smart enough not to give me a look directly. He was focused to the side, his brown eyes narrowing as if he were trying to figure out what the trap was.
“Honey?”
“I am to serve Mistress in all she desires.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
He sighed.
“You’re bound to answer me,” I said.
His eyes closed. His face turned to me. Then his eyes opened, and he looked me up and down.
“I’ve served ugly women, rich women, lonely women, and old women. Women who, when they bought my time, I knew why I was there and what I was doing there. I got it. I understood that they never expected to have the attention of a man like me. Some were beautiful on the outside, but ugly cunts on the inside and they soured the service for me with their demands and shrill little laughs. So, I went to… to the Master, and I asked him for something else.”
“You’ve taken contracts with him before?”
“The Master oversees the contracts for those who signed up rather than continue through the prison,” he said. “He has overseen our contracts for four years now.”
“Until six months ago, he was retired for five years,” I said.
He shrugged in response to the comment. As he shrugged, an annoyance came over me.
If Mr. Wrightworth had seen over their contracts, that meant that he hadn’t been retired. He told us he had been.
He had sworn he was no longer involved with the Program. We had thought it strange that he had seemed so content to live out his days seemingly doing nothing.
“All right, fine, you went to ask him for something else, and this is what he gave you?”
“The Master said that you might not use me for sex, but if you chose to do so, you would wash away the bad things at the same time. Mistress would make me want to serve.”
“That’s a lot to live up to,” I muttered.
“The Master was not wrong.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Mistress makes a slave desire to serve.”
In the moments following his words, I stared at him in stunned silence. Not believing what I had just heard.
When I realized that my mouth was hanging open, I closed it. I watched him for a long time, then looked down and motioned to his crotch.
It was still covered by the tea towel. The fabric of the towel was flat in a rather obvious fashion. Not even the hint of something else.
“You don’t seem too eager,” I said.
“You learn not to get hard,” he said. “Otherwise it might be miss-interpreted.”
“By thinking about what, exactly?” I asked.
“What the Master has said he will do to me if I mess this up,” he said.
I took another moment of consideration.
He was trained a little to ensure a smoother interaction. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Mr. Wrightworth wouldn’t have just uttered a threat. He would have been very detailed, almost more detailed than he had to be. It would have been enough to paint a colourful picture.
I could have stood around asking more questions. Or I could take advantage of the gift Mr. Wrightworth had dropped in my playroom.
The man was sitting in patient silence. His face turned away and at the ready to respond to any command I might have.
“I want to hit you with a flogger,” I said. “Stand, turn around, and place your hands on the arms of the chair.”
He moved immediately. As he stood, I noticed that he kept the tea towel just level to hide himself. Turning, he set the towel on the seat of the chair, then placed his hands on the arms. Doing so made him bend over, hunkered down almost, but with just enough of a bend that I had access to his entire body.
His backside rippled with muscles as he adjusted his weight to a more comfortable position. The skin was not flawless, not by far. There were faint scars across his back and a pockmark on his thigh from the old style of vaccination.
Just below his thigh, where his backside met his leg, was a tattoo. I didn’t know what it was for, but the sloppiness implied that it was a prison tattoo. Somehow, I doubted he had gotten it done voluntarily.
The ink made me want to ask about a transmitted disease test, but I knew that Mr. Wrightworth would have performed that test before offering the job in the first place.
Instead of commenting on any of it, I dec
ided to ignore it. Before the good person in me showed her head again and I decided we should watch movies instead.
It wasn’t every day that someone gifted me a submissive, and I couldn’t let the chance slip through my fingers. It had been so long since I had been able to tap into that side of myself.
I went to the wall and looked over the choices hanging there. My fingers floated over the toys. The crops and floggers and paddles. Each sent a shudder through me as I thought about the sounds he would make when I struck him.
In the end, I pulled down a flogger with medium width tails on it. The tails wouldn’t cause a great deal of pain. I knew that I could use it at full force without concern.
I wanted to cause some pain, but not a great deal of it.
Returning to him, I flicked the flogger against his backside gently. He didn’t even jump. I saw the quiver though, just under the surface.
“What if I was to put something there?” I asked, flicking him on the backside again.
I asked not because I wanted to, but because I wanted to know where his limits were. By answering that question, I would have a better idea of how the night would go.
I could begin to formulate some kind of plan inside my mind and keep to a rhythm.
“As Mistress would like.”
“I’m asking you, Honey, would you want that?”
“No, Mistress. I’ve had enough of that.”
“Prison?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment.
“Women like to watch a man like me be forced into submission.”
I would have to be careful of how close to a line I came.
Submission mainly. Maybe a little pain but not a great deal. My night would be about control, but I would give him that much.
I was in a mood. I wanted to hurt someone, really hurt them, but that didn’t dictate whether I could have fun with a submissive.
“And they got away with that?” I asked.
“I was told to read the contract more thoroughly next time,” he said. “There’s no sympathy for prisoners under contract. Mistress may do as she pleases.”
“Some men enjoy it, was why I was asking.”
“I am not here for my pleasure.”
“But it would please me if you came.”
He remained quiet a moment.
“It, uh, it takes at least half an hour for me to be able to perform again. Mistress should probably know it’s not faster than that.”
“Is that excitement in your voice, Honey?” I asked.
“A beautiful woman tells me it would please her if I came?” he asked. “What man wouldn’t get excited about that?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said.
Although, suddenly I was thinking about it.
Rather than admit that he had changed my line of thought, I hit him with the flogger.
He didn’t so much as make a sound, so I hit him again, harder this time. I put my full force behind it before he seemed so much as moved by the motion of the flogger. Hitting him like that pulled something in my arm, but in a good way.
My heart sped up as I drew in a breath, watching him in confusion.
I put that weight behind my strikes. It felt good to stretch my muscles. Rather than simply going through the motions, I was feeling the pull of muscle as I pushed myself. It felt better than a good workout.
My heart began pounding in my chest. It thundering away in my ears. I thought about what I wanted to do to him. It was just always there at the back of my mind. A running thread that changed with the events.
I always looked like I knew what I was doing because I anticipated what would come next.
It turns me on.
Every time he resisted making a sound, it spread the heat a little further. The tremble over his backside was only him adjusting his weight, but it made me bite my lip.
It really turns me on.
Especially when he hissed out a breath because I managed to overlay my strikes just the right way to cause pain. That sound of agony washed over me like the first splash of hot water from a shower after a long day at work. I hit him like that again and the sound he made almost drew a sound out of me in response.
I stopped, breathing hard, my hair escaping my braid. It had been ages since a sub made me work that hard to make them wince.
“You know how to take a beating,” I said with a huff.
Because I was still breathing hard.
I might as well have used him as a punching bag, then run a mile afterward. It likely would have had the same effect on both of us.
“I do, Mistress.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” I demanded.
“Mistress did not ask, and it seemed inconsequential to the outcome of the evening,” he said, turning slightly to glance at me. “Was it consequential to the outcome of the evening?”
“I don’t feel bad about wailing on you now, that’s for certain,” I said.
“If it pleases Mistress, I will not bite back the sounds any longer,” he said.
I would have loved to take him up on that offer, but after a shift on my feet and the beating he had just taken, I was uncertain I could go further.
I didn’t want to push myself so far that I regretted everything the next day.
I only want to regret some of it.
The flogger could not be used to strike him again. Both because of my limits, but also because I may have accidentally crossed his boundaries because he was uncommunicative while trying to please me.
We had to watch that in new submissives.
He might do anything to keep me from ending the scene. I had to be the one to take a step back and watch him. Be gentle with him.
And that meant that I had to switch from impact play to control. For both our sakes.
“It would please me,” I said, stepping back from him. “But I’ve now changed my mind. I want you to sit.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
He moved immediately and sat, pulling that tea towel back over his lap as he did. It was such a natural, fluid motion that I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of women he had dealt with in the past.
The types that shied away from the image of a penis, but who had wild sex with strange men whose services they purchased?
I watched him for a moment, the flogger tapping against my hip, its tails swinging gently.
While I stood there, I wondered what I might do to him.
“It would please me to see all of you,” I said finally.
The towel slipped to the right, but it did so slowly. He watched me as he pulled the fabric to the side. I knew that he watched me because I kept my eyes level with his face as he revealed himself.
As I heard the tea towel fall to the floor, I sucked in a little breath.
Anticipation crackled along my nerves as I kept my eyes on his face. I wanted to look down, to drink in the sight of him, but then the moment would be over, and it would just be sex that we were having.
I want this man.
The breath I had sucked in shuddered back out, and I tried not to make a motion or to so much as twitch as I continued to consider him.
“Why don’t you show me how much you wish to please me,” I said.
“And how might that be done, Mistress?” he asked.
He had been trained but not been taught any code. My play had remained private, and changed over the years.
The resistance caused a small bump in my mood, a bit of irritability, but it was quickly followed by another wave of anticipation as I realized that I could train him to do whatever I pleased.
“I want you to touch yourself.”
“As I might in private?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I want you to continue to do so until you believe you are about to come. Then you must ask me to stop.”
“I’m…” a flush of something trickled over his face. “I’m not trained for that. I’m afraid I might disappoint Mistress.”
“This is not a task which one might fail at unless no effort is put in at all,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress.”
I kept my eyes on his face as he blushed and reached. The red stayed in his cheeks as he began stroking himself.
It was a kind of control play. He wouldn’t be hurt in any manner. At the same time, I could get a feel for his stamina before I decided how and when to climb up on him.
I was eager to take every inch of him in. From his toes to the tip of his head.
But I kept my eyes off the movement. I began to walk around him in circles, to keep from gawking. The motion was as much for myself as to keep him from focusing too much on what I was doing.
His body moved as I did, but it was a shifting sort of way. That movement of the body finding pleasure, of tension going down his spine. A flush came over his cheeks as he continued stroking.
A hot man sat before me, working up a sweat. His mouth opened, breath shuddering out as he stroked himself with a passion, with a purpose.
Okay, I’m a little twisted.
I enjoyed the show. I liked watching him writhe even as he attempted to sit still. I loved how the red crept down his neck, how his back stiffened and almost arched, and his toes curled.
“Please,” he gasped out.
“Stop,” I said.
His hand snapped away, locking onto the arm of the chair as he panted, desperately trying to retain control. Trembles rolled up his flesh. He gave a little gasp as he rose up and opened his mouth, looking very much like he had crossed that line.
I looked down finally, surprised to find that he was still hard and willing. He twitched as I looked up and down the magnificence of his manhood. I could understand why he had been popular with the women. He had the body for it. The rest was just skill and practice and any man, no matter his size, could learn how to pleasure a woman.
“Are you in control?” I asked.
“Mistress is in control.”
“Of your orgasm?” I asked.
He remained silent a moment. His eyes focused on the floor some distance away from the chair, at the halfway point or so between him and the door.
“I need a minute,” he said.
I waited. I walked around, behind him, and remained there.
He wouldn’t see me eyeing him up. I wouldn’t be caught staring at that like a dog after meat.