He put up his hands. “I give up, Jenny. You're obviously the better debater. The bottom line, regardless of anything else, is that I don't want a slave. Not now. Not ever."
"You don't choose slaves,” she reminded, quoting him his own fucking book. “They choose you."
"Yes, well if you read my book closely enough, you'll note these types of relationships have unhappy endings. Which is why I don't start them anymore."
"Laura holds back in the story,” she said. “That's why things don't work out with her and her master. I wouldn't do that..."
This was more than he could stand. She had no clue, no right to lecture him about his own characters. “You are meddling in things you don't understand, young lady. And your fifteen minutes are up, so you may consider this discussion at an end."
Her eyes flashed. “No. You don't own me, you said so yourself."
"We had a deal,” he sought to maintain his patience. Not to mention his equilibrium. What was it about the creature that made her so irresistible? She was like a cat, sleek and languid, elegant, totally classy and yet every ounce of her was begging to be taken in hand and treated like a slut.
"I'm breaking it,” her eyes twinkled.
The little imp. “You're going to end up over my knee,” he warned.
"You don't have the balls."
Jeezus. Now she was goading him, trying to trick him into BDSM. “I am going to the rest room,” he told her. “I'd really like it if you were gone when I got back."
She didn't say another word as he left the booth. Once safely in the men's room, he splashed cold water on his face, trying to get himself calmed down. In the space of the last fifteen minutes he'd managed to be angry, indignant, resentful, and above all horny as a teenager. He only hoped she hadn't seen the erection at the table. The combination of her words, her attitude, the mix of sweet surrender and piquant challenge had raised him to a level of desire he had not felt since Christine.
Indeed, even then, nothing had come this fast, in so completely irrational a form. He'd actually wanted to fuck her. To haul her over his lap, spank her pretty white ass hot pink and then put her down on the floor in whatever position struck his fancy.
Or maybe against the table. From behind.
Damn. His cock was threatening to explode. Was he going to have to go in one of the stalls and masturbate?
The door burst open, sparing him.
Or so he thought.
"Jenny—christ-what are you doing in here? Are you crazy?"
"I couldn't help it.” She threw herself against him panting. “I lied ... I do feel like I know you. I feel like I've always known you. I was such a little smart ass. I need to be disciplined. I need you to take it out on my ass."
Her sweater covered breasts molded to his chest. Her crotch was pressing his prominent bulge. It was no longer a matter of imagination. She was right here, in his power. He need only hike up her dress...
Fuck. She wasn't wearing panties. Simon's fingers came to rest on the silken cheeks of her ass. So smooth, so pure and unmarked. If not a virgin to corporal punishment than she had to be pretty damn fresh.
"Do you like me this way?” She asked, expectant. “I didn't wear any underwear ... so you'd know what a slut I can be for you."
"Jenny,” he shook his head. “You don't want to get mixed up with someone like me."
"Shut up,” she smiled. “And kiss me ... Master."
Her lips were wet and supple, like a flower just after a rainstorm, an explosion of sensation on his own, drier, more sated mouth. A man could get used to this—even addicted. But there were prices to be paid for things. It wasn't right to go back in time. This body, this girl, belonged by rights to a younger man.
"That's enough,” he said, feeling anything but in command.
"Take me,” she grabbed at his crotch. “Do things to me..."
A chill went down his spine. Christine had spoken those very words, commencing a relationship a long time ago. In another lifetime.
"Please?” She whispered into his ear, a hot, fresh, sweet burst of air unsullied, unpolluted.
Simon gathered her at the back of the neck. Feeling like a vampire, he took another kiss from her. This one left her gasping for the air from his lungs, the touch of his fingers, squeezing, kneading her flesh. “I have to ... I have to..."
The thought was unfinishable. He pushed her back against the wall, yanking up her skirt. She sought his cock desperately, like some kind of lifeline. They tore together at his clothing, exposing his hardness. It was a clean fit, good and natural. She moaned deep and satisfied as he penetrated her, sliding his shaft deep inside.
Jenny wrapped her legs around him, bringing their bodies tight as skin, pelvis to pelvis. She fit him like a glove, her pulsing canal inviting his cock to swell even further. “I dreamed of this,” she confided softly, her hands on his back, fingers spread. “I knew ... it would be this way."
And I'd almost forgotten...
Simon delayed the inevitable. He wasn't twenty anymore; he knew he would last only a few thrusts. Especially at this current level of excitement.
Jenny's teeth chattered. She had so much passion.
Unable to hold back, hands gripping her firm, narrow waist he retracted his cock. Just as quickly he reimersed himself.
"Yess...” Encouraged Jenny.
Simon grunted. It was time to fuck. And fuck hard.
In and out, their bodies forming a primal rhythm. Two strangers, the divide of generations, of backgrounds meaning nothing. Simon felt it building. He grunted, led on by her sighs and soft moans. “Going to..."
Simon exploded inside her. Jenny orgasmed with him, panting and writhing. He wanted her clothes off, he wanted them rolling down a hill, plunging over a surging waterfall, catapulting to the rapids below. He wanted her anywhere, anywhere and everywhere, in all the corners of his dark mind, to shine the light of her pink skinned beauty.
"Oh ... Sir,” she sighed as the explosions died at last.
Simon withdrew, his faculties gradually returning. Damn, he'd blown this big-time. How had he managed to lose control over himself like this? Was he really that far out of practice as a Master that he could no longer master even himself?
Zipping his pants up, he grasped for words, a drowning man, seeking some bit of flotsam to hold him afloat. “Jenny, that was—"
Her finger went to his lips. “No,” she decreed, supplanting the role of the older, wiser partner. “Don't ruin things. I know—it shouldn't have happened. It was irresponsible. You're sorry. It won't happen again. Just tell me one thing—tell me you'll teach me."
Simon frowned. “Teach you?"
"Teach me how to submit. How to be a slave. Then if you don't want me, you can let me go to someone else."
"No,” he shook his head. “I've already made it clear; that's impossible."
She smiled wistfully and then shrugged. “Okay."
"Okay?"
Jenny kissed his cheek smiling. “I'll find someone else to train me. Goodbye, Simon. And thank you."
Just like that, she was gone back out the door. He stood there in a daze. Letting it all sink in. Was it some dream? Had he fallen asleep at his computer in the middle of writing some crazy story?
It seemed real enough. Certainly the orgasm wasn't faked. Splashing another round of water on his face, Simon left the restroom. He half expected to see her still at the table.
She wasn't.
Obviously, he was relieved. The last thing in the world he needed was a woman like that, of her age, depending on him, fawning all over him. She had heartache written all over her. She hadn't a clue what dominance and submission were all about. She was barely out of adolescence, trying to fulfill fantasies in leather guise and she was in for a major crash landing. A brutal lesson in reality.
There were no story book masters to take away a woman's pain, nor were there true slaves, who could take their life's breath from a man's image. It was a dangerous, deadly game and those who pl
ayed it, who tried to live for real the fantasy of man and slave ended up with bitterness and seething disappoint at best.
At worst ... well, he was a living testimony to what the worst could be.
That was Simon's one real fear in all this. His one regret. Instead of screwing that young woman in the bathroom he ought to have given her a talking to, helped convince her of the foolishness of what she was doing. Christ—he'd probably made it all seem that much more attractive now. Safe and fun ... exciting.
She wanted to go and find another man to train her. The idea rankled him, badly. It wasn't a matter of his own personal interest—he was worried for her safety. The girl was a lamb, about to trot herself in front of wolves.
But what could he do? If she was set in her ways. Talking wouldn't do it—not now. It would have to be something more dramatic. A lesson, if you will, to dissuade her. Nothing painful, just a demonstration, to let her see that sexual slavery was a cruel dream.
He'd have to do it himself. Who else could be trusted?
It couldn't be a matter of passion. He'd have to feel nothing. Want nothing from her and when it was over, he'd have to let her go.
Of course it was all theoretical ... she was long gone by now.
"Boo."
Simon's pulse quickened at the sound of her voice. Jenny was behind him. She hadn't left yet after all. “Are you trying to give an old man a heart attack?” He complained.
She grinned, cheekily. “If you were prone to heart attacks, I think we'd have found that out by now."
"I'll be sure and give my doctor the good news,” he said wryly.
"I'll send you a bill,” she winked.
"You know,” he observed. “You're pretty advanced for your age."
"Only around you."
Simon felt heat to his cheeks ... what was this, he was acting more like the youngster than her. “Uh, look,” he cleared his throat. “I've been thinking. There are circumstances under which I would see you again, work with you."
"And they are?"
"It's more of a proviso. The truth is, I would have an ulterior motive. To dissuade you from wanting to be a slave at all."
Her eyebrow shot up. “That sounds like the plot of one of your stories."
He pursed his lips. “Maybe. I'm just concerned. Another man ... might take advantage. I want you to see, in a safe environment what this is really all about."
"What if your plan backfires?"
"Come again?"
"Suppose you dish out your worst and I like it."
The thought hadn't actually crossed his mind. “I don't think that's likely,” he shook his head. “I'm pretty experienced at this. Back in the day I had a reputation."
"I'm counting on that,” she purred. “So when do we start."
Simon furrowed his brow. Would he really go through with this? “Tomorrow,” he heard himself say. “Three o'clock at my house. I'll write down the address."
"It's okay, I know how to find it."
He raised an eyebrow.
What was he getting himself into here ... this girl was seeming just a little too sure of herself. Was he calling the shots or was she? And even if he was, how long could he keep it up? She'd already managed to throw him off track once...
"I'll be there,” she assured. “Until tomorrow."
He took her hand, warm, exciting, every old man's dream.
"That's what I'm afraid of,” he grumbled, watching her firm posterior exit the diner.
The saying came to mind about roses. The more beautiful the particular flower, the more deadly and sharp the hidden thorns. If that was true, then this young lady was going to coming to him well armed, indeed.
Well armed, and deadly to the unknowing heart.
Fortunately for him, he was immune to such things. At least he hoped so.
CHAPTER THREE
Jenny hadn't expected to be nervous. So far all her energy had gone into getting to this point. It was a game, a kind of conquest. Actually having relations with Simon in the diner bathroom was like this incredible bonus round. Points popping up everywhere on the screen. What she hadn't figured on was what she'd actually do when she got to this level.
Standing at Simon's door, at the end of his long, twisting driveway, a road unto itself. She couldn't believe it when the cab brought her to the address. She knew the place was big from what Simon's editor had told her, but nothing prepared her for actual mansion status.
Kind of appropriate for a BDSM man, though, she thought. It was like the big house in that French book, The Story of O. Such a sad story in the end. No fairy book union between hero and slave. Simon's book was sad, too. The slave in that story had betrayed her Master and run away with one of his grounds keepers, stealing a hundred thousand dollars in jewels and cash in the process. Was the girl just using him all along? Or was she used by the muscular groundskeeper? Could a slave be held responsible for that kind of behavior, if a new man took claim of her heart? The author seemed to leave both possibilities open. Either way, though, the original Master loses all.
Was this exactly how it had gone for Simon? She certainly saw a similarity between his house and the mansion in the story. Did Simon have inherited money, too? Or did he get it from somewhere else?
Oh, god, why wasn't he answering the doorbell? The cab had left her here, feeling totally abandoned, pretty much naked in the scheme of things. And that didn't begin to cover her outfit, consisting of black boots, a short black leather skirt and a red bustier. The denim jacket seemed a good cover-up, though she really had no clue what a man like Simon would expect from her. For underwear, she'd gone for black silk panties and a push-up bra.
She jolted to attention as the door opened at long last.
"Sorry that took so long,” said Simon.
She melted at the sight of him, in a white silk shirt, half unbuttoned and a pair of faded jeans. He was lean, sensuous as a cat, totally perfect. His hair was loose this time, framing his face. She noticed the little lines, at either side of his eyes and by his mouth. They added character, wisdom to his look.
"It's okay, I was only here a minute,” she quickly apologized for his delay.
Jeez, Jenny. Get a grip.
"Won't you come in?"
"Thank you.” Nothing in her imagination prepared her for what was inside. The foyer was all marble, with actual statues in the recesses in the wall. There was a dome overhead, and a circular staircase leading up to a balconied second floor. The art on the walls was like a museum. She wanted to kick off her boots and wiggle her toes in the plush snow white carpeting.
"Can I get you something to drink?” He offered.
"Do you have any wine?” She noted the raised eyebrow. “Oh, sorry. I forgot ... I'm only twenty."
He flushed slightly. “I suppose at this point it doesn't matter much..."
She giggled, liking that she could get to him a little. “It's okay, really. A soda would be fine."
He brought her a cola.
Jenny thanked him, appreciating the little electric spark between their fingers.
"Why don't you have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of the two white leather couches in the large, open living area.
She sat herself carefully, black leather on white. “This sounds serious,” she thought aloud.
Simon sat across from her in the middle of the opposing sofa. She noted now that he was barefoot. Wouldn't it be cool, she thought, to be sucking on his toes?
"I must admit, I have had some second thoughts. I actually didn't sleep at all last night."
She had to laugh at that. “Oh, Simon, neither did I. I'm so glad it wasn't just me."
He smiled, the expression warm and complicated. She could just reach out now and kiss the life from him. “The truth is, I agreed to this only because I didn't want you doing anything with anyone else."
"Why not?"
"Because you could get hurt, Jenny."
"Oh.” She'd been hoping for another answer. “But life is about getti
ng hurt, isn't it? You can't prevent it."
"No. In the end, we can't. But we sure as hell try. Otherwise, we can shrivel up and die."
Kind of like you hiding in this house?
She didn't say that. Instead she thanked him, for letting her come over, whatever the reason.
"I couldn't go back on my word,” he explained. “Although I have decided to alter the form of your training."
Shivers went up and down her spine. This was it...
"It won't be what you expect, though. And I'll insist you agree, in advance to my terms, without knowing any details. If you decline, or if at any point you wish to stop, that is acceptable, though our relationship would terminate immediately."
"I want whatever you want, Simon.” The words flowed so naturally. She'd never been so sure of anything in her life. She loved him. That had to be it.
"It will happen downstairs,” he explained. “I have a special room."
"Yes, Simon.” A special room ... he had to mean a dungeon.
"If you'll follow me."
Leaving her cola on the glass coffee table, she followed the man, down the hall and round the corner. There was a door and a set of stairs. He turned on an overhead light. Pale red.
"Watch your step,” he advised. “It's narrow going."
Simon let her go in front. Twice he had to steady her by putting his hand on her waist. Oh, how she loved that. Her heart was thrumming. The temperature was dropping, just a little. It was getting damper.
"This was a wine cellar,” he explained. “A long time ago. It's not really suited for that anymore."
Indeed not. She looked in admiration around her at the wondrous playroom he'd built. The walls looked like medieval stone. There was a set of stocks, a rack and a whole assortment of chains, whips and tools for torture.
"Oh, Simon,” she whispered, her knees going weak.
"In the center there's a pulley system. A victim can be strung up by the wrists,” he explained significantly.
She stood beneath it, boldly lifting her arms above her head. “Like this?” She inquired.
"Exactly like that. Now I want you to fetch the riding crop. From the hook on the wall over there."
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