“Silence,” Master Anthony interrupted sharply. “You did not ask for permission to speak.”
Jaime snapped her mouth closed, her face hot with embarrassment and shame. Of all people, Master Anthony was the one she wanted most to impress, and she’d failed him. Gene, witness to her shame, was still kneeling between her legs, but he was sitting back on his haunches, his hands in his lap, his gaze downward.
“We begin again,” Master Anthony continued, his voice once again soft, his expression kind. “This time, work on harnessing the pain, rather than fighting it. Work on reining in the pleasure, rather than giving in to it. Before you can truly submit, you must learn to control your reactions, your responses, your desires and your needs. Before you give yourself fully to another, you must first become the master of yourself.”
He gave a small nod to Gene, who resumed his sensual, singular attention to Jaime’s now-sensitized sex. The whip flicked down in a snapping arc on tender breasts. Sweat trickled down Jaime’s back and prickled at her armpits. She clenched her hands into fists, determined this time to succeed, to become her own master.
She felt dizzy. Her cunt throbbed, pleasure rising in her core, as the whip snapped and cut across her flesh. The tip found her nipples once more, pain exploding like firecrackers at her nerve endings.
“Now,” Master Anthony said, his voice strong. “Come for me, slave Jaime. Give me your submission.”
At that precise moment, Gene slipped his fingers inside her, twisting them in a way that connected perfectly with whatever he was doing with his tongue. The whip continued to snap and bite at her breasts but she now welcomed its relentless sting. She actually visualized herself walking that narrow tightrope between pleasure and pain, high above the world, lifted by her Master’s command.
She came, the orgasm ten times—a hundred times—more powerful than the first stolen climax, its onrush blinding in its impact, its perfection, its grace.
When she finally opened her eyes, it took her several seconds to focus and reorient herself. She felt as if she’d run a marathon, and won. She had done it! She’d focused, worked through the pain, staved off her orgasm, and then come on command. She flashed a grateful glance and smile at Gene, who, it seemed to her, had worked some kind of magic to send her over the edge at just the right moment. He, however, was not looking at her, his gaze fixed instead on Master Anthony.
Some of Jaime’s pleasure ebbed. She flexed her fingers, which tingled uncomfortably from lack of blood flow. Her breasts stung. She was sweaty, thirsty and exhausted. The exercise seemed to be over. She wanted to be let out of the cuffs. She needed to pee.
Master Anthony was watching her, and she had the uncomfortable feeling he was reading her less than obedient, less than submissive thoughts. She looked away and drew in a deep, cleansing breath, trying to refocus on acceptance.
Master Anthony touched her cheek. “You did well, slave Jaime. We’ll continue to work on your control skills, and also on acceptance and the need to stop anticipating.”
So he had read her mind. She nearly smiled in her chagrin and silently promised herself to do better.
Master Anthony glanced down at Gene. “How long has it been since you orgasmed, boy?”
“Three days, Sir,” Gene replied promptly.
“Your Mistress has given permission for you to come today, if I agreed you earned it. You did. So stand up and take your pleasure. I will direct you.”
Gene jumped eagerly to his feet, a wide grin on his face. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” he said enthusiastically. His cock was fully erect, the golden hoop of his Prince Albert piercing glinting at the base of the head.
Master Anthony leaned close to Jaime’s chair and adjusted its legs until her knees were touching. He released a lever on the chair’s side, which caused the top half to ease back until she was lying flat. He stood over her and unzipped his leather pants. Without taking them down, he reached into the open fly and pulled out his cock, which, even in its semi-erect state, appeared to be quite large.
He wrapped his hand around the base and shifted until he was standing just over her head. With his other hand, he gestured to Gene. “Stand on her other side. We’re going to ejaculate at the same time, on my command.” Gene scooted quickly to Jaime’s other side, his expression puppy-dog eager.
The two men began to masturbate, their cocks poised over Jaime’s upturned face. She lay, still bound, arms spread wide, as they pulled and tugged at their shafts. Gene’s gaze was fixed intently on her welted breasts. Master Anthony was watching her face. After only a few minutes, he said, “Open your mouth, slave Jaime, and accept our gifts. Keep your focus on me.”
To Gene, he commanded in a slightly breathless voice, “Come for me, slave Gene. Now.”
On cue, the perfectly trained slave boy began to spurt, his jism splattering Jaime’s cheeks and chin. Unable to control her reflexes, Jaime’s eyes squeezed shut, though she managed to keep her mouth open. Recalling Master Anthony’s admonition, she quickly opened her eyes. Master Anthony, his gaze still fixed on hers, shot a ribbon of ejaculate directly into Jaime’s open mouth. She sputtered and swallowed, struggling for some modicum of grace as she tried not to choke.
Recovering, she drew her tongue over her lips. Master Anthony’s come was salty-sweet. His cock still erect and dripping, he reached down and pushed his hand between Jaime’s legs. A few well-directed strokes of his fingers against her cunt had her instantly pulsing with need. He rubbed her for perhaps thirty seconds and the wave of a climax began to roll toward her.
“Are you ready to come again, slave Jaime?”
“Yes, Sir,” she gasped, the wave rising.
“Well, don’t.” His fingers kept moving. “You are on the edge. Learn to balance there.”
Jaime stiffened, her fists clenching above the cuffs, her heart thudding, her breath rasping. It felt good. Oh god, too, too, too good.
Fuck, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
The wave crashed over her.
The fingers were withdrawn. The room was deadly silent, save the thudding of Jaime’s heart in her ears.
Finally Master Anthony spoke. “Ah well. You know what they say. Progress, not perfection. That’s why it’s called training. Shall we begin again?”
Chapter 10
“That’s it,” Mason said as he watched Mark push yet another needle through the skin of the orange. “Your technique is excellent. You’re ready to work with a live subject. My girl will be happy to volunteer.” They were in Mason’s suite on the second floor of The Enclave where the Dominants and their personal slaves slept. Mason’s space consisted of an L-shaped room, one part containing the bedroom, the other his private playroom/dungeon.
“Let’s move on to knives.”
Mark glanced up quickly. “Knives?” An involuntary shudder moved through him. “Sorry. I know it’s a major rush for you and Ashley, but blood, all that”—he shook his head adamantly—“I’m just not into it.”
Mason smiled, shaking his own head. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss something, just because it takes you out of your comfort zone, Mark. Think if we let the subs do that—we’d only have floggers and Hitachi wands in the dungeons.”
Mark laughed. “Okay, okay. You’re right. I’ll try to keep an open mind.”
“Good.” Mason stood from the worktable at which they’d been practicing and turned toward a freestanding wardrobe. He opened the doors and selected a large, flat wooden box from a shelf. He returned to the table with it, along with a tissue-box-type plastic container of pre-moistened anti-bacterial wipes.
“This is my knife play collection, carefully honed, pun intended,” Mason said with a grin, “over my twenty-plus years in the scene.” He set down the box and opened the lid. Beneath a folded piece of black cotton he revealed half a dozen black velvet bags, each set into its own molded partition. There was also a packet of small plastic cards with a rubber band wrapped around them, as well as a large box of various types of adhesive bandag
es and a tube of antibiotic cream.
“Those look like credit cards,” Mark remarked, pointing toward the stack.
“They are.” Mason picked up the packet and tossed it toward Mark, who automatically caught it. “Edge play isn’t just about cutting and drawing blood—the core of the experience is mental. It’s a mind fuck in the best sense of the word.” As Mark stared down at the expired gasoline card on top of the packet, Mason continued, “One very effective technique during knife play is to blindfold your sub. She doesn’t know what to expect. That’s when the plastic cards can come into play. Her brain will have been geared by you to expect a knife’s edge. You can use the edge of the credit card and really bear down on the skin without risk of cutting. You know it’s perfectly safe, but she doesn’t. Hence the mind fuck.”
Mark nodded, his imagination rippling with the possibilities. “That makes sense. It sounds hot.”
“Smokin’,” Mason concurred. He reached for one of the velvet bags and pulled a knife out by its handle. He set the knife down on the unfolded cotton fabric. “When choosing knives for play, just as when choosing them for cooking, you want to focus on functionality, not fashion.” He selected a second knife and slid it from its velvet sheath. He handed it to Mark. “This is a good starter knife. The length of the blade is approximately the width of your hand, for easier control. The weight, size and balance are important. You don’t want something with too long a blade, especially when starting out, since they can be unwieldy and hard to balance.”
Mark lifted the knife and shifted it from hand to hand, imagining the blade sliding along bare, smooth skin. “That’s right,” Mason encouraged. “The handle should feel comfortable at all angles in your hand so you have full control and can properly judge how much pressure you’re putting on the blade. Remember, even here at The Enclave, rack is the name of the game.”
“Rack?”
“You know, R-A-C-K,” Mason spelled out. “Risk-aware, consensual kink. It’s a level beyond S-S-C.”
“Safe, sane and consensual,” Mark replied, glad he at least knew that one, and feeling foolish that he hadn’t heard of RACK before, though he understood and practiced the concept behind it.
“Yep.” Mason nodded. “It’s all part and parcel of our core principals of consent, communication, responsible play and risk mitigation. With something like knife play, it’s especially important that everyone is made completely aware of the potential risks and complications of what they are doing. The first step is making sure you, as the Top, do, in fact, know what the hell you’re doing. We’ll go over the basics, and you can use these knives to work with on your own before we actually scene this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” Mark queried, surprised. “Isn’t that a little quick?”
Mason shook his head. “Nah. I’ve watched you in action, Mark. You’re a natural. You already have the whole mind fuck concept down, and you have the passion and intuition to make any scene a success.” Mark warmed beneath this praise. “Skill with the blade isn’t that crucial yet. I mean, yeah, you’ll be using a real knife, but I’ll handle any actual cutting. We’ll never move out of your comfort zone during the actual scene.”
Mark liked and trusted Mason, whom he regarded not only as a teacher, but as a friend. “Okay,” he said. “I’m willing to give it a try.”
“Good man.” Mason selected another knife and pulled off its velvet cover. “Some people use fruit and paper and stuff to practice, but I believe the best dummy to use is yourself. You need to know, up front and personal, exactly what that blade feels like on your own skin before you get anywhere near your sub.”
“But you said you don’t have to cut yourself?”
“No. Not talking about an actual cut. Knife play isn’t about cutting, in general, unless that’s your particular kink. It’s about the sensation of the blade grazing your skin, the potential, the possibility that it might happen—that it could happen. That’s the mind fuck, see?”
Mark nodded.
Mason set down the knife and pushed up the sleeve of his knit black top, revealing his hairy, muscular forearm. “Now, if you’re kinked like me”—Mason turned his arm over and drew the tip of his blade in a small line along his inner arm. Mark watched, both horrified and fascinated as a thin line of blood beaded in its wake—“you get off on the blood and the pain, and the endorphin rush it brings.”
He looked up at Mark and smiled a sadist’s smile. “I know, I know,” he said as Mark opened his mouth to protest, “it’s not your thing. I get that.” He reached for the box of Band-Aids and pulled one out, quickly tearing off its paper covering and applying it to the tiny, self-inflicted wound on his arm, which, Mark now noticed, was covered in myriad tiny scars.
“Like I said, you don’t have to actually cut yourself to learn to do this properly,” Mason continued calmly as he pulled down his sleeve. “It’s all a matter of technique, and of paying attention, close attention, to your sub’s reactions.” He popped open the plastic tissue box and plucked a pre-moistened wipe from it.
Picking up the knife, he wiped its blade and then looked over at Mark. “Now let’s practice some technique. Use your knife and copy what I’m doing on your own arm, to get a feel for what I’m talking about.”
Mark, wearing a button-down shirt already rolled to the elbow, didn’t need to push up his sleeve. His heart beating a little too fast, he tentatively touched the edge of the cold blade to his bare skin. “That’s right.” Mason nodded encouragingly. “Now, pull the knife toward you—never push it. You want to hold your blade the way an artist holds and controls a paintbrush. You have to anticipate a sudden flinch, jerk or quiver so that any cut is intentional, never accidental. Your sub is your precious canvas, and you want to be creative while always maintaining full control.”
Mark watched carefully, copying Mason’s movements with his own knife, a surge of adrenaline kicking through his gut at the thought of doing this to someone else, to a naked, vulnerable sub girl who trusted him completely. The erotic power was a natural aphrodisiac, and he suddenly understood what a rush edge play could be.
The image of Jaime bound to a bondage table, blindfolded and at his mercy, tried to push its way into his consciousness, but he managed to shake it away. He focused instead on the knives and what his friend was teaching him. As with any BDSM scene, he instinctively understood it wasn’t necessarily about the tools you were using, but the whole setup and execution—placing the submissive in the proper mindset and giving her, and in the process yourself, what she needed and craved.
Mason brought out a bucket of ice from a small refrigerator he kept in the corner of the room, along with a candle and a lighter, and a violet wand kit. They experimented with chilling and heating the blades, as well as adding an electric thrill to the experience with the violet wand. They worked steadily for over an hour, discussing technique and nuance as Mark gained comfort and experience handling the knives.
Finally Mason set down his blade. “Take the kit,” he said. “Keep working. I’ve got a scene scheduled with the trainee this afternoon. I want you to join us and put your practice to the test.”
Before Mark’s brain processed Mason’s words, his cock sprang to attention, his earlier fantasy leaping flow-blown back into his consciousness.
He could no longer deny it—it was becoming increasingly hard to keep his growing feelings for the girl at bay. In the two months since he’d been at The Enclave, he’d worked intimately with all the staff slaves, as well as two other trainees, neither of whom had been invited to join The Enclave community, though both had been worthy subs—just not the right fit. While he’d grown and developed as a Dom with each experience, and had genuine fun and sexual thrills with some of the female subs, no one had gotten under his skin the way Jaime had over the past few days.
He’d been trying to put his feelings aside, to dismiss them as casual attraction to a beautiful woman. After years of fortune and fame, he’d had his fill and then some of beaut
iful women eager to be with him, not because of who he was—but because of what he represented as a rock star, with all the glitter and fame that went with it. It was that same fame and its attendant pressures that sapped both his energy and time, making a love connection virtually impossible.
Love!
Who said anything about love?
Jaime was there for another week or so. Then the odds were good she’d disappear, the same as the others. The Enclave was a special place but an exacting one, and the commitment, especially for staff slaves, was intense and all-consuming. It was foolish to allow oneself to become emotionally connected to the trainees, especially for someone who hadn’t fully committed to the place himself.
Annoyed with himself for brooding, Mark pushed away his thoughts and went in search of his guitar. He would refocus with his music, and then practice with the knife kit for the afternoon’s session.
~*~
I can’t do it. No way. No fucking way. Jaime clenched her hands into fists against her thighs, her muscles rigid with anxiety. Ashley and she knelt together on the mat in the main dungeon waiting for Master Mason to arrive and begin the scene. Ever since Master Lawrence had informed Jaime she was to report to the main dungeon after lunch for knife and needle training with Master Mason, Jaime’s mind had been in turmoil. She was grateful Ashley was going to be there with her, but also knew Ashley was totally into the extreme play that made Jaime sick to her stomach just to think about.
Ashley turned to regard her. “What’s wrong with you? You’re all tensed up.”
“I can’t do it,” Jaime blurted, voicing her silent fears. “I’m terrified of needles and knife play. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t. I just can’t.”
Ashley was silent for several long beats. Eventually she shrugged. “So go, then. Leave. Quit.”
“What?” Jaime was confused.
“It’s not like you’re here as a prisoner, Jaime. If you don’t want to continue your training, you can just walk out. No one’s going to beg you to stay.”
BDSM Club Series Box Set Page 15