Master of Two: Nascent Love (6 page)

She greeted him upon his homecoming, naked,
or wearing only the skimpiest of thong panties. As he closed the
door, she would drop to her knees and kiss his shod feet, waiting
for him to call her name. He always had a kind word for her, asking
about her day as she rose to hug him and enjoy a tender kiss.

He would give her a sharp spank on her
bottom, and she would giggle and hurry away to pour him wine. Marc
sat in his favorite chair, and told her what would please him that
day.

“Rub my feet,” or neck or shoulders, was a
frequent request, but not long after, he’d finish his wine and rise
and she would follow him into the bedroom where she removed his
clothes and offered him more comfortable ones to change into.

It became a routine whenever he was in town.
If she forgot anything, or neglected to put things to rights in
order for the housekeeper to do her job the next day, she was
spanked soundly. Although it often made her squirm and cry, she
loved the sting of his hand on her bottom and the hot redness there
afterward. She craved the release of tension as she sobbed at his
feet, the total freedom of knowing that her actions had
consequences and she had the choice to obey or be punished.

They made love every night, sometimes more
than once. But Marc, in his early thirties, occasionally went out
with other women closer to his own age and didn’t come home
overnight. Amiko was unhappy and restive on those nights, turning
to her own fingers and a secret vibrator to meet her needs.

* * *

She confessed to Renee that it was the
vibrator that caused the irreconcilable rift between her and Marc.
He had forbidden vibrators, claiming that they would be too intense
on her tender flesh and would ruin her for the more subtle
sensations of fingers and tongue. But, stubbornly, Amiko kept her
vibrator for lonely nights.

* * *

One night, however, he came home earlier
than expected. Ami didn’t know why the evening was shortened, but
it didn’t matter in the end. As he quietly entered the bedroom,
careful not to wake Amiko, he must have heard the buzzing of the
forbidden contraption coming from Amiko’s padded pallet on the
floor.

“Amiko!”

Immediately, she turned it off. The silence
was thick. “Marc?”

The light flicked on and he stood in the
bedroom doorway, thunder on his bearded face. “What do you think
you’re doing?”

“I missed you,” she tried, sheepishly.

“Bull shit. I ought to make you eat that
thing,” he raged. “If I didn’t think you’d enjoy it, I’d shove it
up your ass and make you sit on it overnight!”

“I’m sorry.”

He stormed into the room and went right to
the closet where he rummaged around for a few minutes, finally
emerging with a large canvas bag. “Get your sorry ass over here,
girl.”

Crawling, Amiko contritely came to him,
kissing the toes of his shoes submissively and keeping her head
down on the floor after the obeisance.

“Stay there.” It took him a few minutes, but
soon he’d removed his clothing and lay prone on his big bed. “You
will give me head. You will do it the way I taught you, and you
will not be allowed to come at the end as you usually do. You will
remain silent. Not one sound. I plan to pretend you’re someone else
and I don’t want to hear Amiko noises. Do you understand?”

His rejection of her as a person stung
deeply, but she replied, “Yes, sir,” from her position on the
floor.

“Now!”

* * *

He watched her approach on her knees,
admiring the curve of her hip and the gentle sway of her small
breasts as they hung from her chest. Her long, black hair draped
around her like an ebony scarf, glinting blue-black in the light of
the bedroom lamps. Marc was furious with her, but also resigned. It
was time to move on. They’d come as far as they could go. She was
too young to solidify the relationship into something more
traditional, and he was certain that none of the
traditionally-minded women he’d choose as a wife would want the
young beauty around to create competition for his affections. The
idea of two women squabbling over his time and attention didn’t
appeal either. He wanted children and the comfort of a softly
padded wife around.

Amiko climbed on the bed and raised her head
to look up at him, seeking permission to touch him. He nodded.

Immediately, she began to kiss his thighs,
running her hands over his belly and legs, feather-light, stirring
the hairs on his middle ever-so-slightly. Her mouth drew nearer to
his growing cock. By the time her pink tongue touched the place
where his balls began, he was fully erect and losing his anger.
Relentlessly, she stroked him with tongue and fingers, reserving
her tongue for his cock alone. One of her hands caressed and
kneaded his balls as her tongue made its way up along his phallus
to the dark pink head. She held him steady as she laved the head
carefully, paying careful attention to the critical place where she
knew he was most sensitive. The scent of her was floral soap mixed
with excited woman. He made a small sound, barely a vocalized
exhalation of air, at once both interested and stern-sounding. Marc
wanted her to know that she was to continue to please him in the
way she’d been taught, as well as that he had not forgotten her
misbehavior.

She gently passed her teeth over the bulbous
head and he reached out to run his fingers through her hair,
finally wrapping a handful around his fingers to tug, reminding her
exactly who was mastering whom. Amiko was quiet, only the sound of
Marc’s roughening breathing stirring the stillness of the room. Her
tongue snuck around and around, up then down until she paused,
licking a drop of pre-cum off with greedy quickness, as though Marc
was going to withhold it from her out of pique.

He wanted to fantasize that she was someone
else, as he warned her, but, in fact, there was no one else to be
his fantasy girl. Amiko was his lacy, sexy pleasure-tool, and at
twenty-one she was becoming someone both adept and potent. When she
popped his cock in her mouth and began to take him deep, he
wondered if he could do it, actually give her away and see her
enmeshed in someone else’s sensual web.

The sensation of the back of her throat on
his stiff flesh drew his attention back to the girl and only the
girl. She sucked and slid him out of her mouth and back in again,
finding a rhythm that would inexorably bring him to climax. He
pulled at her hair, applying steady pressure so that she would
remember her place. In a small way—perhaps a cruel way—he hoped
she’d make a sound, any sound, so that he could punish her more
rudely than he planned. He resented her hold over him. However, he
was in charge of both her and himself, even as she was performing
so eagerly on his cock.

She increased the rhythm, and he once again
lost track of anything but each passing moment and the building
heat in his balls. Soon…it would come soon.

His hand left her hair and slid over her arm
and under to cup her breast. The small mound was familiar, welcome
in his large hand. He found a tender nipple and gave it a pull,
enjoying her small shudder and the closing of her eyes as the pain
crept over her. He rolled the nipple in his fingers, squeezing it
hard and releasing it with a twist. Her breath was fast now, her
scent growing stronger and a flush stole over her face. In the
past, he had allowed her to orgasm in response to these trifling
excitements, but not tonight.

Marc explored the skin of her side, her flat
belly, and her hip. She was perfectly formed, her curves a sensual
pleasure, a visceral enticement. His orgasm neared; it was so
close, so very close. Once again his hand stole under her body and
he grasped her breast, squeezing the firm flesh until he felt her
silent gasp as a cool zephyr along his wet cock. He raised his hips
and found her head with his big hand, guiding her faster against
him, pounding her throat with his hardness, stealing her breath
away until all she could do was gasp when he allowed her to
breathe.

Although anticipated, the moment of his
release was almost a surprise, as it always was. One moment he was
a randy animal, and the next he was seeing stars and galaxies,
holding his breath and then releasing it with a grunt of pure
pleasure. He held her head steady, his semen shooting into her hot
throat until it finally abated. Finally, he let go of her. She
raised her head, gasping for air, eyes closed and lashes spiky with
unshed tears.

Marc let her recover as he was recovering,
too. Although his blood pressure had dropped with his ejaculation,
he refused to fall into sleep; there was still one more chore to
perform. He rested, fighting Morpheus. His voice was gravelly but
firm when he said, “Get up, Amiko. Move back down to the floor and
wait.”

She nodded, heeding his order to be quiet,
and crawled off the bed to kneel up nearby, her head bowed, her
lips red from recent use.

Marc swung himself off the bed, and coolly
reached for his canvas bag. A little rummaging and he found what he
wanted: a leather paddle. It was perhaps seven inches long, a
rectangle with a narrower handle. It was made of doubled, firm but
supple leather and snapped smartly when he tested it against his
palm. Ami jumped at the sound, and though she never turned her gaze
up, her bottom lip trembled.

“You may speak.” Her head rose and she cast
her dark eyes on him. “Are you afraid, Ami? Do you realize how
angry you made me?”

Amiko’s voice was shaky and she cleared her
throat before speaking. “Yes, sir.” Her eyes went to the paddle in
his hand, then back up to his face.

“I plan to tan your behind with this paddle,
girl. I plan to make sure that for the next few days you remember
how pissed off I can be.” He slapped his palm with the paddle
again; it hurt his calloused hand, but it would be much worse on
Amiko’s tender fanny. “And, I am going to throw out that vibrator.
Do you have any others?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” Marc moved to sit on the edge of the
bed and patted his thighs. “Come here.”

* * *

Amiko didn’t want to go to him, and yet she
wanted to pay the price for her disobedience. Once she’d been
punished, it would be over and they could go on as they’d done
before. His anger would be gone, the tears would dry, and she would
be returned to his affections. She crawled to him and then rose to
spread herself over his lap. He’d spanked her before, though he’d
always used just his hand. That had been bad enough, but that
paddle looked and sounded much, much worse.

“Count.”

“Yes, sir.”

The first strike came swiftly, before she
could tense in preparation. It stung terribly on her left butt
cheek.

“One, sir,” she said on a gasp.

Another stroke of the paddle and her right
butt cheek got hot. “Two, sir!”

The third smack made her jump as it landed
on the underside and middle of her bottom, spanning that tender
flesh cruelly. She began to sob.

“Count, Amiko, or I’ll start over.”

“Three, sir!”

By twelve, she was crying fully; by fifteen
she began to beg him to stop. Her butt was on fire. She felt as
though the tender skin had been flayed from her behind, that she
was raw, every nerve screaming as she wished she could do.

At the end of the twentieth stroke, he put
the paddle down and pushed her off his lap.

“Go to your bed.”

No cuddling. No warm post-spanking embrace.
No forgiveness offered. It was the most cruel thing he could have
done. The pain of her tortured flesh was nothing in comparison to
the pain in her heart.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she sobbed. “Please
forgive me.”

“You are forgiven, but I’m tired. We will
talk about this more tomorrow, Amiko. Now go to your bed.”

* * *

Three days later, she was transferred to
another man. She went willingly, realizing that she needed the
imposed discipline of a dominant male. Too, she knew that she was
still naïve, and she trusted Marc to find her the right situation
and the right person to shift her obedience to. Over the next year,
she was with two more dominant men; men who considered her precious
property, and in many ways she was spoiled and cosseted. Her formal
training was nearly complete, her spirit unbroken when she met the
Master, Kevin Watson. He took her breath away.

* * *

Renee considered her own training
experiences, so different from Amiko’s and yet leading to the same
place, the same man. She was attracted to the younger woman both
sexually and as a person. Having Amiko around was going to be an
adjustment for each of them, but perhaps something particularly
special could come of it. She trusted their Master to find the
way.

A Man of
Discipline

Sweat runs down my bare chest and back as I
finish my workout, and I'll have a bruise or two on my ribs
tomorrow, but I've been boxing since my early college days and it's
a sport that makes me more comfortable in my own skin. Now, at
forty-two, it is harder to do what I did as a twenty-year-old, but
I am also more savvy, wily, and just plain stubborn. As in other
aspects of my life, I take control of the situation and turn it to
my advantage more often than not.

Some people call me a "control freak" and I
admit, there is some truth to that. I've been that way for a long
time and seem to have a natural tendency toward taking charge of
chaotic systems and ordering them, changing them into something
managed and reliable. I am the sort of guy whose clothes have to
face the right direction in the closet, but I don’t line up the
pens in my desk drawers.

That's the way I behave, and the way I want
others around me to behave: disciplined and reliable. Growing up, I
found myself allied with my taciturn father more often than with my
unpredictable mother. I suppose I learned to prefer strength of
character over whimsy. My mother was an artist, and although I
loved her, her fickleness often grated my nerves.