Unrestrained

by Joey W. Hill

  He'd called her an independent, strong woman, and she was that. She was capable, self-sufficient. Yet that expression awoke deeper, far more primal responses, bringing the submissive in her to full alert, uneasy and anticipating at once, though it was a little more weighted on the uneasy side, given his forbidding countenance.

  "That thing I said, about teaching you every day not to handle the things that aren't your job to handle?" His eyes glinted. "I'm a man of my word. Bring me your hairbrush. No robe. You stay naked until I give you permission to wear clothes."

  She slid from the bed, shivering a little in the morning air as she moved to the bathroom. The tile was cold under her bare feet. She picked up the wooden brush. It had the carving of a hummingbird on the back, surrounded by petunias. She'd bought it at one of NOLA's craft fairs, the brush carved by a local artisan. She brought it to Dale, lowering her eyes as she stood between the span of his boots.

  "Am I your friend right now, Athena? Your equal?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then how should you be addressing me, girl?" he snapped, making her jump.

  "Master. Sir."

  He latched onto her wrist and pulled her forward. He directed her down over his knees, such that her breasts were pressing into his calves, her legs sprawled ignominiously over his other leg, spread by his knee there. He put a hand on her ass, holding her in the precarious position. "Put your palms on the floor."

  It required her to shift forward, perching her ass at the highest point, centered between his legs. Her knees were bent, toes barely holding on to the floor, only his hold on her backside keeping her stable. Then he changed that anchor point, putting his hand between her legs and clamping it around her pussy, his thumb pushed against her rim. "You keep your legs spread. You don't worry about balance. That's up to me. Why are you being punished, Athena? Why will I punish you every day like this until I'm satisfied you've learned the lesson?"

  Every day? Did that mean he'd be here every morning? Her pussy dampened at the thought, even as her pulse increased in trepidation. As tender as she knew he could be, he was equally capable of this, silencing every voice in her head but the one that told her she better follow his every order to the letter.

  "For . . . for trying to handle things that I shouldn't. For trying to handle my Master."

  "And?"

  "I--I don't know, sir."

  The brush came down on her left buttock, stinging and sharp, making her jump. "For not caring for your Master's property. You are my property. You understand, girl?"

  "Yes sir." She bit back a yelp as he struck her again. "Yes, Master."

  "I'm going to give you a pretty severe spanking this morning. Enough that by the end of it you're going to be trying to get away. But I'm just going to hold you down and keep going until I'm sure you understand. Because words alone won't do it."

  "I'm sorry, Master," she said, trying to hold on to the floor as he shifted.

  "Not as sorry as you need to be, girl." And then he made good on his word.

  She was sure he was holding back, because he looked powerful enough to put someone through a wall, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it. She tried to be still and quiet, accept her punishment, but he'd predicted that correctly as well. Before he was done, she'd lost track of the count and was squirming, screaming, trying to get away. He proved without a doubt then that he was far stronger than she was, holding her in that position with one arm, bringing the brush down again and again until she was jerking at every blow, sobbing, clinging to his pants leg. Then he made her let go of him and put her palms back on the floor as he'd commanded, before giving her five more strong whacks. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face into his leg, shuddering with the pain.

  Her relief at seeing him place the brush on the side table was overwhelming. She was panting, her heart thundering. He eased her to the floor between his feet, positioning her so she was facing away from him. He wasn't in a mood to be tender yet, though. "On your ass, girl. Don't you try to avoid it. Draw your knees up to your chest, link your arms over them."

  She winced as the position stretched the skin over the most abused portions of her throbbing buttocks, but she clenched her fingers together over her knees, rocking forward. His hands were on her hair, undoing the braid. As her sobs slowed to little hiccups, she wondered at his silence, wondered what he was thinking or planning next. He stroked his fingers through the wavy strands, loosening them. Then he picked up the brush and began to use it on her hair.

  Deep, massaging pulls, the bristles scratching her scalp in a soothing way. She sniffled, shook, rocked against his touch. When he reached forward to pull a loose strand away from her face, she brushed her mouth against his fingers. As he stopped, holding his hand there, she turned her face into his palm fully. She cried, even as she nuzzled him, touched her tongue to the creases between his fingers.

  She was a wreck, but that hard shell she'd formed around herself these past few days had literally been beaten to pieces. What was left beneath was raw and vulnerable, but not broken. If anything, she felt as if she was kneeling over her own soul, retrieving it from that shell, seeing it free at last.

  He took his hand away and began brushing once more. She closed her eyes, letting the tears run freely, her ass hurting, every part of her shaking. At some point, she realized he was humming, a quiet, soothing sound as he followed each stroke of the brush with a stroke of his hand through her hair.

  She wasn't sure how long he did it, but it was the most memorable aftercare she'd ever experienced or witnessed. The clock ticked on the wall, the only noise beyond the tiny adjustments normal to the house, the faint sound of birds outside. She was glad she'd given the staff off until next week. She liked it like this, just the two of them.

  The simple stasis became something else as the tears died back. She thought of what she'd wanted last night. That had been the lust, the desire for emotional and physical release, but this had a different need entangled with it.

  "Master?" Her voice was rusty with tears.

  He paused. "Yes, girl?"

  "May I . . . thank you?"

  His hands resumed their movement along her hair. "Do you think you deserve that?"

  "No sir. But I want to give you pleasure. Please."

  He stopped again. She heard him shift, sit back. Eagerness flooded her as she heard the metal of his belt being unbuckled, his jeans being unzipped, the adjustment of clothing.

  "Turn around and get on your knees. Arms boxed behind your back, hands holding your forearms."

  He wasn't going to allow her to touch him except with her mouth. While that disappointed her, another part of it took it as an extension of the same punishment. She'd overstepped her authority with her Master. If she put it in Dale's terminology, he was sure as fuck going to make sure she didn't do it again.

  As another side effect of his punishment, she realized she'd let go of what had happened with Sheila. It still felt raw, painful, but when her mind turned to it, there was no cringing embarrassment or sense of failure. At least right now. If she even considered those negative feelings, the punishment he'd just given her overrode it. It was a deliberate form of conditioning. God help her, he'd implied he'd be dishing it out to her regularly, but, perverse as it seemed, that made her feel better. He was in control. The punishment reminded her that any attempt to hold control broke his rules. And he was right. That reminder had brought relief. Pain had accompanied it, but as a result, there'd been no room for shame or regret. Paying the consequences of her actions took care of that.

  He put his hands on her upper arms and shifted her forward on the carpet, bringing her mouth within range of his cock, jutting up hard from the nest of testicles. He'd merely opened the jeans, freed his shaft from them and the boxers beneath. He wasn't going to give her a tempting view of his ass or upper thighs. She was servicing her Master, pure and simple, and it made everything in her tighten up and contract, every nerve ending rippling with eager, excruciating ne
ed.

  He gathered her brushed hair into a tail, holding it in his fist. With the pressure of his closed hand against her scalp, he brought her down to him. Because her arms were boxed behind her, she had to depend on his hold, the hand he had on her shoulder to control her descent and direction. Then she had her mouth on his cock.

  She made a hungry noise as she enclosed it, slid down to the root. He grunted, hand tightening in her hair, and he began to control all the movements, up and down, making it clear her mouth was at his disposal, to use as he desired. Arousal from her pussy made her calves slick, but even before that she'd been wet, from the spanking of all things. Through the punishment, her nipples had stayed hard, her heart thumping erratically with arousal as well as pain-induced adrenaline.

  She'd accepted she was a submissive, but discovering how much his harshest punishments could turn her on was still new at times. The moment she'd opened her eyes in the bed and Dale had given her that look, telling her he was going to be cruel with her, she'd started to respond. She didn't think she was a hardcore masochist, but she was realizing the punishment helped her put her mind in the right place. He had figured it out well ahead of her. Which was why he did it, of course. That, and because he purely enjoyed it, in a way that inexplicably thrilled her.

  She focused on his taste, his scent, the heat and weight of him. It was more than his cock. She loved the sheer solidity and dense strength he possessed. His toughness was more than a surface thing. He was just as strong inside, a man who'd proven he was capable of handling a great deal, for himself and others.

  So often he'd had to fish the words out of her, but during this pure service, she felt everything they'd discussed last night. She saw the difference between handling things she incorrectly felt like she couldn't rely upon him or shouldn't ask him to do, and wanting to do things for him purely out of love. She wanted to make things easier for him because he was her Master, and he loved her. He gave her a sense of safety and well-being that made her want to do the same for him.

  It was amazing, what one spanking could do. If he delivered on his daily threat, she might solve all the world's problems in a week. Maybe they should have Dale hand out spankings to Congress. With a really, really big paddle.

  But for now, she had one focus, and she gladly surrendered her undivided attention to it. She sucked on his cock, accommodating him by relaxing her throat muscles as he pushed her down to the root, then brought her back up again. She worked with him, bobbing up and down, flicking her tongue over him with mad, hungry delight, making matching noises in her throat as she increased the suction, nipping at him here and there.

  "Fuck . . ." His oath was music to her. She kept at it, directed by his closed fist on her hair, the strength of his arm pushing down, drawing her up. Please come for me, Master. He could take her to a mindless state where she had only one sharp wish. To serve him, to feel his release and know she'd cared for him as she should.

  His thighs shifted beneath her gaze, his breath increased. His fingers convulsed in her hair, the grip on her shoulder bruising. Her own fingers, gripping her forearms in the boxed position along her back, were damp from the effort she was putting into this. Then that effort was rewarded.

  His cock jerked, convulsed in her mouth. She prepared herself, reveling in it when his seed spurted into the back of her throat, so violently she had to struggle to hold on to it, sealing her lips hard around him as he continued to shove her down upon him. She swallowed, coughed, swallowed, and took him down, using her tongue to lash at him, gather it all up, swallow some more.

  He slowed with a shudder, a long, satisfied male sigh. She was worked up, highly aroused, but she wanted to stay that way. She wanted him to fuck her, but she also wanted to be like this, too, in a state of constant eager readiness for him. In some vague part of her mind, she realized she was hovering on the edge of a different type of subspace, everything gone except this, and she hadn't even climaxed. He'd taken her there another way, with the extreme punishment, followed by the demand of servicing him, two things she hadn't even realized how much she wanted and needed until she did them.

  "Bring me a warm washcloth."

  She rose on shaking legs, went into the bathroom and ran the water. She glanced up at the mirror as she waited on it, and saw two things. Her face, alive and vibrant, enraptured. His expression in the background, watching her with a possessive . . . contentment. She'd sated him physically for the moment, so what she was seeing was his satisfaction at knowing his sub belonged fully to him. It matched her fierce need to be possessed by him and him alone.

  She came back to him, knelt. He took the cloth from her and cleaned himself as she watched with desire beating in her chest, pulsing between her legs.

  He rose, tucked himself back into his clothes, rethreaded his belt and touched her head. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs."

  He bent, tipping up her chin to give her lips a quick brush, and then he was moving away down the hall. She listened to his footsteps, the sound of him in her house, and felt . . . balanced.

  Dressing was a little difficult since she was having some coordination problems, but by the time she managed to put on jeans and a suitable shirt, clean up her face, she was at least not fumbling her moisturizer. She clipped her hair back on her neck with a silver barrette, sure he wasn't in the mood to wait for her to style it. He'd said she was beautiful to him, and she was going to believe it. Though she did add a touch of concealer and eye makeup.

  She followed her nose to the kitchen, where he was scrambling eggs and working on toast. "I would have made you breakfast," she said.

  "Did I tell you to make me breakfast, Athena?"

  "No sir." She thought of the formal contract that some Masters and subs wrote to clarify rules and structure. He simply led, guiding her with questions and insight, and ferreted out her desires through her responses, crafting that contract between them as they went along. She expected it was a skill from his training, thinking on his feet, mapping out a strategy, and she liked it very much. As nebulous and unspecific as she'd been about what she was seeking from the beginning, it was actually what worked best for her.

  Perhaps it was part of what had drawn her to him, seeing those qualities demonstrated in his interactions with Willow or Sally. She thought about their volatile discussion over his continuing to take subs, and the warm memory of how that had been resolved. He was committed to her, and her to him. "May I help in any way?"

  "Set the table. And you can wash out the frying pan. Not my favorite thing."

  She suppressed a smile at that, and caught the twinkle in his eye when he saw it. She set the table and scrubbed the pan as he transferred their breakfast to plates and brought them to the table. He held her chair for her, scooting her up to her plate before he took the seat next to her.

  Companionable silence reigned for a while as they ate. He commented about the hedge garden they could see out the window, asked about whether her wooden birdfeeders had been custom made. He liked carpentry, working with his hands, and that led to her asking him about his projects. She found out that, before Eddie's, he'd lived in one of NOLA's rougher neighborhoods, and had made flower boxes for the families there. He'd also helped with community beautification projects, like setting up a playground on an empty lot.

  Impulsively, she reached out, closing her fingers around his resting on the table. He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed it, squeezed. "Better today?" he asked, gaze searching her face.

  "Much."

  "No embarrassment." It was a mandate, not a question, and she smiled a little at that.

  "Surprisingly, a lot less than I expected."

  "Good." He gave her an appraising look. "Go to the living room. I have a bag there, on the coffee table. There's a bottle in it. Bring it back to me."

  Curious, she obeyed. It appeared to be some type of ointment, handmade, because there was no labeling on it. When she put it in his hand, he gestured. "Turn away from me, drop your jeans and panties t
o your knees."

  He was direct and calm about such orders, whereas they sent things careening in a hundred different directions inside her, like the thrill of a sudden jump of the car over a hump in the road. As she complied, she heard him unscrew the top, then squirt some of the liquid onto his hands. He must have rubbed it into his palms before he began to massage it into her tender flesh, because it was warm when it touched her.

  "You'll put this on twice a day, morning and evening, as long as I decide to give you your daily punishment. Remember, I expect my submissive to care for herself. I like touching her soft skin."

  Since she liked that, too, it seemed a mutually beneficial task. "It also keeps the nerve endings sensitive," he added. "I want you to feel that punishment, Athena, until I'm sure you've learned the lesson."

  She thought of that spanking, shuddered inside at the idea of going through it a countless number of times before he was satisfied. She knew there'd be nothing she could consciously do to convince him; he would be guided by that damnable intuition of his to know when it finally clicked, and she couldn't really argue with it. It was hard to undo over twenty years of behavior, and she'd already proven, several times now, that it could ambush her, push her back into that cell, as he called it. He intended to seal off that room, and his punishment would be the mortar that did it.

  A behavior modification proposal like that brought a dichotomy of anxiety and relief. She was also highly aware of his hands, kneading her buttocks, slipping intimately between them to finger her rim. Then he slid his touch lower and his other arm banded around her waist, bringing her down into a sitting position on his lap. The position allowed him to push his fingers between her labia, his thumb sliding over her clit.

  "Whose pussy is this?"

  "Yours, Master."

  "Are you going to play with it when I'm not around?"

  "Only if you tell me to."

  He chuckled against her ear, a dangerous sound. "Wishful thinking, girl. Denying you makes you work harder to please me. When I finally tell you to come, you gush against my cock and mouth harder than when you aren't denied. Don't you?"

  "Yes, Master. Ahh . . ." She moaned as he pushed his fingers in deeper, rubbed his thumb over her.