Own Me, My Love

by Reese Gabriel

  Talk about a nightmare that wouldn't end.

  Wasn't it bad enough she'd had to endure dreams about the man all night long, in which she'd served as his passionate, helpless love slave? In each one, she'd tried to argue with him, to keep her independence, only to find herself drawn to his power and magnetism. In one dream they'd been sitting at a table at a restaurant, with all of her friends. He hadn't said a word all night and finally they asked who he was. She had no idea what to say and when she turned to him, all he did was give her that look of his, totally expressionless and snap his fingers.

  She'd tried to fight the feelings, but it was like there was this power he held over her soul. The minute his fingers snapped, she was compelled to get up and start taking her clothes off. Her friends were mortified. She was too, though she could not resist. Beginning with her black dress, and then her bra and panties, she stripped.

  At last, when she was fully naked, a waiter came and asked her if she would like dessert. The women were arguing about whether to have pie or cake. She just looked at Grant, who told her she would have the “special."

  At once two more waiters brought out the large cage.

  "Bon appetite,” said Grant, handing her an apple to put between her teeth.

  She knelt and crawled to him, right there in front of all the people. He put the apple in her mouth, stroked her hair and pointed to the cage.

  Just like that, she crawled into it.

  They locked her in and left her there while they ate their coffee and cake. Roger was there, telling everyone embarrassing little details about their life together. The way she moaned when she came and how she could be made to whimper when denied her climax too long. They were laughing the whole time. Finally Roger told them to quiet down. “You should go ahead and take her,” he told Grant. “She likes you better than me, anyway."

  Which didn't make sense, because she'd never even met the man while Roger was alive. No one cared for her opinion, though. All they wanted to do was help drag her out of the cage, all those hands, grabbing and groping, putting her face down, bent over the table, the linen tablecloth rubbing against her nipples.

  Grant came up behind her, took out his cock and prepared to penetrate.

  "Not that way,” said Roger. “In the ass—like last time."

  What last time?

  Grant gave a deep groan, and like magic he was all the way inside her, filling her, making her come without even being inside her sex. Roger shouted his approval and that's when she woke up.

  Served her right for drinking whisky. And playing around with barely legal house painters.

  Grant's cruiser was on her bumper. He took his sweet time getting out. Putting on that Stetson hat of his, adjusting his gun belt and sunglasses. Was she supposed to be impressed by all this?

  Okay, so he was imposing and sexy as hell. She'd be damned if she'd give in to harassment. “You better have some really good reason for pulling me over,” she informed him as he reached the side of her car.

  "License, insurance and registration,” he said mechanically.

  She handed over the required documents. “I wasn't speeding, I know that. The registration's current. My brake lights work..."

  "That's a good likeness of you,” he commented on the license photo.

  "Who should it look like?” She snapped, rapidly losing her patience. “It's my frigging photo."

  He frowned. “Disrespecting an officer is a misdemeanor in this township."

  She put her wrists out impulsively. “Then why don't you fucking arrest me and get it over with. Or is it something else you want from me?"

  He handed the license back. “I've already had it, Carrie."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "Sexual relations. You and I have been intimate."

  Her heart leaped to her throat. “Impossible. I'd ... I'd remember."

  "Not if you were blindfolded. Chained and helpless in a room full of men."

  The blood drained from her face. “The dungeon,” she whispered in fierce recognition.

  He nodded somberly.

  "Oh, god.” She buried her head. “What you must think of me."

  "You were obeying your husband. I had nothing but admiration for you."

  She laughed sardonically. “Some obedience. I pouted for days after that. Made him promise never to do anything like that again. Just one more disappointment for the man."

  "Look at me, Carrie."

  It wasn't a request. Neither was there anything harsh in his tone. Carrie obliged, meeting him with moist eyes.

  "If anyone should feel bad it's me. I knew it wasn't right. You're not that kind of woman."

  Now she was curious. “So why did you?"

  His lips curled. Wonder of wonders, he was taking off his glasses. “I'm not completely sure. I guess I just ... wanted..."

  "Wanted what?” She pushed. “Me?"

  "I never did like how Roger was with you,” he confessed. “I felt ... I felt he didn't really know you."

  The words tripped off a storm. “Roger was a saint,” she defended. “The man never lied to me, he never cheated, he lifted me up from a place so low you can't even imagine."

  "Easy,” he gentled. “I mean no disrespect. I—oh, hell, I don't even know what I'm doing here. How about I just let you go—with my best wishes and sincerest apologies?"

  He was halfway back to his car when she stopped him. “Grant, wait."

  Grant turned, a wall of quiet masculinity. A mystery, really, but one she couldn't help but want to explore. If for no other reason than to answer some questions she still had about Roger.

  Like why the man stayed with her and put up with so much.

  "What is it, Carrie?"

  Her pulse was racing. One question—she had to distill everything into just one question. It came to her in a flash. “Roger never had you meet me. He never even mentioned your name. Weren't you that close?"

  His smile turned wry, hiding pain she couldn't imagine. “He was my best friend, Carrie."

  She craved to reach out. It was instinctive—wanting to comfort a strong man, to serve him with her feminine weakness. “Oh, Grant, I'm sorry ... did something happen ... between you?"

  "I'll never know for sure. All of a sudden he stopped calling, stopped taking my calls. I think ... I think he didn't want me to know."

  "About the sickness."

  "He was pretty independent that way,” Grant nodded.

  Everything came rushing back now, all the images, the sights and sounds of the hospital. Oh, god, she was back there. It was like she'd never really felt the pain, just stored it somewhere deep. The next thing she knew she was sobbing, barely breathing. “Grant,” she cried.

  He took her into his arms and she let go. Yes, it was all clear now. A woman like her couldn't grieve all on her own. She needed it to be in a context. She needed a man, a dominant man.

  How familiar Grant's embrace felt. Was it a result of their coupling? Was it a bond they shared through Roger or was it something else, some kind of chemistry between them, something that meant they were never capable of being strangers.

  "I've been so ... lost ... I ... oh, Grant,” she cried into his chest. “I need to be dominated. Please ... you know what to do."

  "Carrie,” he gripped her upper arms, reestablishing eye contact. “Do you know what you're asking? Do you know the implications for both of us?"

  She had to laugh through her tears. “I don't have a fucking clue. God, you must think I'm psychotic."

  "Far from it. You're one of the sanest people I've ever met."

  It was the best thing he could have said. If Carrie's inhibitions had been lowered before, they were down around her ankles now. “I know I'm probably sounding like some kind of slut,” she said softly. “For all I know you have someone already. I just need ... something for today. To hold me together. Will you do that for me, Chief? Will you own a little lost slave girl, just one time?"

  She could see the storms
raging in his eyes. “I'm not like Roger, Carrie. I can't be that for you."

  "Oh, no, I didn't mean that,” she quickly clarified. “I want you to be ... you. I want you ... to Master me. Help me find myself again. Then I swear, I'll be gone from your life."

  "No, that can't be."

  Her heart sank. “You don't want me."

  "No, quite the opposite."

  "What's the problem, then?"

  Now it was his turn for moist eyes. His lips trembled as he spoke the words. “The problem is that, if I have you again, even a taste of you, I might never let you go."

  Carrie's knees buckled. This was something she hadn't anticipated.

  "I know, it's crazy. We don't even know each other."

  Mind racing, she sought to salvage the situation. “Maybe it's not so crazy. We've been together already ... you know me. We both loved Roger. Maybe ... maybe something will click with us."

  He shook his head. “No. You're just trying to be a good girl, Carrie. You're trying to be pleasing, and that's not what I want."

  Now she was confused. “So what do you want? Are you dominant or not?"

  Never had she seen such torment on a man's face. “Yes, of course I am. With every fiber of my being I want you. Naked. Subservient. In my chains. Wearing my collar."

  The images flooded her pussy. She was reminded of her skimpy garments and how quickly they could be removed at the man's command—the halter top that bared her flat belly. The short cut offs and sandals. “When you talk like that,” she replied honestly. “I don't think ... I don't think I could deny you anything."

  "And that's the problem,” he said. “You should deny me. You should always hold something back. Even from your husband. I've seen what happens to girls, Carrie, when they let men walk all over them. When they become doormats. Fucking pimps, Masters, boyfriends, husbands—they come in every guise. Wolves in sheep's clothing."

  "So that's it. You're judging me by other things you've seen. Why, you're even judging yourself."

  "I don't know what you're talking about,” Grant scowled.

  "Don't you? Isn't it obvious you're making assumptions. It's my business how I feel about my marriage to Roger, and if I want to be someone's slave or pony girl or puppy dog, that's my business, too. I think what really scares you is how much it all turns you on. Have you ever had a slave—really had one?"

  "Of course I have. I've been in the lifestyle fifteen years."

  "Bullshit. You've been holding back. You want more.” Carrie kicked off her sandals. Barefoot, she approached him on the road. A car passed, the first since they'd started talking.

  "That's close enough,” he warned. “I'll be in enough trouble if anyone sees me out here with you."

  "Fine,” she agreed. “Come by my place, tonight, when you're off work."

  "I thought you were leaving."

  "I changed my mind."

  He pursed his lips, considering. “All right. I'll be there at seven. But we're going to talk. That's it."

  "Whatever you like."

  This time she didn't stop him. He peeled off down the road, not looking back. About ten seconds after he was gone she started breathing again.

  Fuck it. Now what have I done?

  * * * *

  Grant really shouldn't be doing this. No good would come of it. Anything he had to say to the woman he already had. Any sympathy he felt was long since extinguished by her harsh attitude. Maybe Roger had a point. Maybe she did just need some old-fashioned taming. It would be on someone else's watch, though. Not his.

  He changed into jeans and a colored t-shirt before driving over. He'd have dressed up more, but that might have been construed as some kind of a date. He'd never go out with Carrie. He'd never kiss or touch her, never lock her pretty throat in a collar, never clip the leash on or accept her beautiful crossed wrists for binding.

  Fuck, but he was certainly aroused by the idea. The whole rest of the day he'd been fighting off erections. He'd never wanted a woman this badly in his entire life. If only she wasn't so complicated and intense. If only he could be sure of a quick fling, something with no strings attached. He could use her for a night, like he'd suggested, but that wouldn't be right.

  Also, like he'd already confessed to her, he'd never be able to let her go in the morning.

  Carrie greeted him with a huge smile on her face. The little wench was trying to look innocent, but he knew better. Dressed as she was, barefoot, in a cleavage bearing peasant dress, tingling bells on tiny chains, encircling each trim ankle, a black choker on her throat with a tiny red flower, her hair loose, almost begging a man's strong fingers to run through it.

  "Grant,” she said demurely, eyes slipping subtly to the floor between them as she opened the door for him.

  His cock surged at the sight of her, the way she said his name. It was as if she were merely awaiting the command, to kneel, to pay obesience.

  "You look beautiful,” he said.

  "And you look very handsome. I hope you're hungry. I prepared a little something..."

  He was hungry, but not for food. “I can't stay, Carrie. I have ... other engagements."

  "Oh.” She closed the door behind him. He hated hearing that tone in her voice ... shy, disappointed, erotically humble.

  "It's nothing personal, Carrie. You're a fine woman."

  "Please,” she smiled. “You don't have to humor me."

  "It's not humoring. It just seems you could do so much better than me. With all those men to choose from in the city?"

  That struck her as funny. “You don't get into the city much do you?"

  "Not if I can help it. Not lately, anyway."

  "Men like Roger,” she said softly. “Men like you ... are rare."

  He inhaled. “Pot roast? You shouldn't have gone through so much trouble."

  "It's not trouble. I haven't had a man to cook for in so long."

  "I cook, too,” he said pointedly.

  "Really? See, you are a catch after all."

  Grant hadn't intended to take her into his arms. Her surrender to his kiss was instantaneous and deeply feminine. She molded her body to his, a reverent offering. It was like dancing without the movement or music. His was the lead position, hers, the following.

  For a long time he simply enjoyed her, exploring her mouth, learning the intimacies of her clothed flesh. He liked it this way, slower, more old-fashioned, more equal.

  "May I please you?” She wanted to know when at last he released her.

  Grant's blood pounded at the thought of her, down on her knees, servicing his turgid erection. “No,” he deferred. “It's too soon."

  "Tell me, then,” she pleaded. “Tell me what to do."

  He played with a lock of her hair. Never had he felt so responsible for a woman's happiness ... and at the same time so completely inadequate to bring it about. “Have supper with me. That would be a nice start."

  She beamed, more girl than woman. At that moment he knew he was hooked. That radiance was something he was going to need ... for the rest of his life.

  "Come on,” she took his hand. “It's my mother's recipe. I know you're going to love it."

  Thoughts filled his mind. The cage in the corner. The eye hooks above the bed. The way her body would writhe under the blows of his belt. The way she would squirm and arch her back as he penetrated her spread eagled body. The way she would crawl for him and only him ... even as he taught her things about herself. How strong she really was and how independent. He would love her all night long and into the morning. He would seal a bond between them, fulfilling the restless empty places.

  But first, for now, he would eat the pot roast.

  PORTRAIT TWO

  JENNY

  CHAPTER ONE

  For as long as she could remember, Jenny had dreamed of belonging to a man. A strong man, one who would possess her body and soul, who would awaken her kinkiest fantasies. A man to tease and torment, to keep her naked, a man of boundless energy, who was not afraid
to put her in chains, to thwart her will for her own good, making her beg for anything and everything.

  It was not a dream of masochism. Jenny did not want to be put down. Her man would not intimidate or bully her, he would simply look her in the eye and make it crystal clear they would never be equal. He was going to be the Master and she was going to be the slave. He would claim this place, without arrogance, by virtue of his mere being, and she would happily accept it.

  It was not so important what he looked like (she had different fantasies at different times about this) but rather how he behaved. He would be kind to her and fair, but he would be quite rigid, too. In many ways, he would handle her as an owner handled his pet.

  The thought of being trained made Jenny incredibly wet. She'd be given commands to follow and taught simple, pleasing behaviors. If she were good, the Master would reward her and if she were bad, she would be punished. The goal would be perfect obedience, total submission.

  Invariably, she'd end up masturbating, imagining herself put through paces by a virile, attentive male.

  What would it be like? What kind of things would her Master do? She'd be restrained, certainly, and she'd be whipped, most likely. She'd also suffer humiliations. Pets, after all, were kept in their place. Even the most loved of animal companions wore collars and leashes, and sometimes they were put in cages.

  Of course her Master would want certain other things, too. Sexual things. Her submission to the whims of his hard cock would be absolute. Slaves did not have the right to refuse. They could be used any time anywhere and if they were not sufficiently prepared and sufficiently pleasing, they could be beaten.

  Jenny sometimes tried to discipline herself. Using a folded belt or a stick, her ass in the air as she knelt with her cheek to the mattress or the floor, she would strike her body as well as she could manage.

  The light stings she dealt herself invariably fell short of what she wanted and needed. For added stimulation, she could strike her belly or thighs, or even put her own nipples under torture with clothes pins.

  This would give her momentary respite, especially when she put the handcuffs on and lay herself nude on her bedroom floor. Soon enough, she would become numb, however, indifferent. What she was missing, what she craved with her whole being was the partner, the one who would take her on this journey, outside of herself, pushing her to her limits and at the same time bringing her to the depths of her own soul.