Anderson Valley: Simon Lamb

I always love this drive. It’s fast and winding, through fields and hills, past towns built by one thing—grapes. The vines are heavy. Shiny strips of ribbon flutter on the air above darkening fruit. The scent of roses replaces the stench of the city. Warm sunshine replaces dense fog. Earth and sky replace concrete and people. It’s not a long drive, but it’s worlds away. And I always feel cleaner being here.

Grace has been quiet, just staring out the window as the miles pass. She hasn’t moved; I was able to forget she was in the car with me. I’m glad that I chose not to toss her in the trunk. I thought about it. It’s how I usually bring a girl here. It’s how I usually take a girl from here.

 

But then, the girls aren’t meant for me, so it’s best if they don’t know where they’re going, where they’ve been. Grace is unique. I don’t mind her seeing her destination.

I smile more as I pull into the long drive leading up to the house. It’s an impressive property. Surrounded by fields of grapes, orchards of olive trees, and a network of underground caves for storing everything, the house is a solid stone structure—massive in size and stature, set up on the highest point.

In Great-Grandfather’s day, this was an active vineyard. Now I only use it as my private home. Private being the key word. I have staff, but no one stays on this property. My staff are all loyal; the same family has served mine for generations. They never question my orders, my peculiar demands, and no one steps foot in the caves unless invited. Or brought.

“What do you think of your new home, Red?” Grace is still walking around the grand hall. Calling it a living room would do nothing to describe its size and lofty ceilings, or the massive furnishings and expensive antiques that have manned the same positions on the floor plan for generations. All have been passed down from Lamb to Lamb. The rug alone is worth more than most homes, and it’s certainly bigger than the apartment I took her from.

She turns to me, standing in the center of the room, arms crossed. “Stop calling me that.” Her voice is raised slightly, like there should be a stamping of her foot to go along with it. It’s the first she’s spoken since we left the city.

Smiling, I cross the room to her and slam her down to the rug with a wide swing from the palm of my right hand to her cheek. I’m impressed that there is only the slightest shriek from her as her hip and hands hit the floor. Standing over her, I’m still smiling. “Rule number 1: don’t raise your voice to me, Red. Got it?”

Grace doesn’t look up. She turns away from me and braces herself to stand. I let her. To my surprise, even with my obvious handprint covering half her face, she doesn’t say or do anything. I know it has to hurt, but she doesn’t touch her face or show any sign of tears. Instead, her face is soft and open, but she doesn’t look at me.

I step towards her, expecting her to move away, but she stays perfectly still. “Look at me.” She looks up obediently. I’m stiff looking into her dark eyes. There’s no sign of pain. Or fear. I’m oddly even more aroused by this. Usually I only get this hard after seeing a girl brought to tears by a justly deserved shot to the mouth. But Grace is definitely not most girls.

She speaks up, almost sweet with her faraway voice, a fog circling her words, “I like to be called Grace. It’s the name…the name I’d like you to use.”

I put my hand gently over the red side of her face. She still doesn’t flinch or move, just keeps her eyes locked to mine. “All right. When you’re a good girl, I’ll call you Grace.”

And her look melts to her usual one of seduction—her eyes closing slightly, darkening alluringly more. She puts her hand over mine, only pressing slightly with her cool touch. “I believe we have an understanding then, Simon.” It’s about the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a long time.

It brings me back to the first time I hit Raquel. I’d always known that my sexual desires drifted to the more sadistic, darker side. I was the kid who got in trouble for spanking the teacher’s ass or holding down a girl and pinching her non-existent tits on the playground. I learned by the time I was seven that I had to indulge my tendencies in private only.

Grandfather paid off and sent away more than one maid after I’d coerced them into spreading their knees and submitting to my painful touches. His solution was to send me to all-boys schools and only have male help around the house. It only fueled my urges and fantasies, and one particularly helpful driver introduced me to darker erotica at an early age. He showed me a world in books where my desires were met.

Meeting Raquel was the start of all things good for me. She wasn’t willing, not at first. She laughed off the invitation I gave her to come over for a swim. I’d met her at one of Grandfather’s boring society dinners. She blushed and flirted with me all night but tried to act like I was a child.

The shrink Grandfather hired after her suicide tried to make it seem like I was a child too—that she took advantage of me. I had his eyes popping with the details of my repeated sexual depravity with her. I left no doubt who was in control each and every time.

He then tried to say that it was my way of acting out from early childhood abandonment issues. As if never knowing my mother and losing my father just as I was old enough to remember him were reasons for my carnal lusts. As if I fucking gave any thought to either of my parents while I whipped and tortured the girl.

No, my desires, my needs were always the same for as long as I can recall. I’ve not really stopped to analyze them. The trips to the shrink were to appease Grandfather, no more. I knew what I wanted with Raquel and with every girl since her—sex. Rough. Sadistic. Sex. The need to cause pain during pleasure, the need to hear screams as much as moans, the need to see my sadistic touch on smooth flesh—it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Raquel was just the first to give in to my needs.

I wasn’t surprised when Raquel showed up at the exact time I told her to. Even then, I understood the nuance of picking the right girl. I understood that there are willing victims in this world, girls that will give themselves over to the cruelest of desires, their own needs matched by them. Sometimes, I have to help them to see their needs for what they truly are. Sometimes, I have to introduce them to these needs. But there is always a moment when I know that I have the girl right where I want her, a moment when she’ll submit to anything I demand.

With hardly a command, Raquel had stripped out of her clothes to reveal a tiny bikini, laughing and smiling at me as she plunged into our indoor pool. I watched her splash around a little before calling her over to me at the steps. I will never forget her look that first time I smacked her, that first moment when I knew I had her. The first look on the first girl I knew for the first time was all mine to do with as I pleased….it’s a memory I cherish.

Raquel was perfect—hair wet and stuck to her shoulders, arms flailing at the water, face red from the slight slap, eyes wide with shock and pain. She had the most beautiful look to her eyes. There was fear, sure, but understanding too.

When I told her to take off my shorts and suck me, I can admit, now anyway, that I wasn’t sure she would obey. There was the smallest hesitation before her fingers sought the top of my swimsuit, but I knew after that. I knew the look in her eyes. I saw it many times after that, from her and others.

Before she left that day, I said something like what Grace just said to me about an understanding. And I still get hard thinking about that first girl’s response, “Yes, Sir.”

Grace has the same look in her eyes now. She understands what we both need. Something else lingers in her darkness, though, something untouched by me. I move my hand from her cheek to her hair, grabbing a fistful of her silky curls. She drops her hand to my chest.

I like the weight of her hair. There’s so much of it, so much to her. Waif as she is, angled and thin, she takes over a space.

Pulling her head back roughly, running my tongue along the now painful arch of her neck, her eyes never leave mine. “You like it rough, don’t you, Grace?”

“Are you being rough?” I laugh at her bravado. I can see her breathing is quickened. Scraping my teeth against her smooth skin, across the ridge of her collarbone, I hear her little gasp escape. Her scent strengthens as I bend down to kiss the very tops of her breasts, filling my lungs with her spicy sweetness.

I bring my head back up to look down on her. “No, not yet. Be a good girl and tonight you’ll sleep in my bed.”

Her lips curl into a small smile. “What’s my reward if I’m bad?”

Without letting her hair go, I shove her down to her knees. “You still think we’re playing a game, Red. I’m going to have to disillusion you of that thought. You’ll learn tonight that you have only one option.” I slap her face to punctuate the next words, “Be my good girl.”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t raise her hands to try to stop me. She doesn’t even close her eyes. She just watches as each word becomes a sting to her cheek. Slowly, she smiles, a small laugh in her voice, “My safeword is fish, Trust, not that I’ve ever used it.”

I laugh too, shaking my head. I let her hair go, and she stands smoothly. “I know that you think this is all normal, that you’re here for your own desires, by your own design, Grace. I’d even agree with that to a point. But safewords and proper bondage etiquette? The usual dance between likeminded partners, exploring the darker side of sex—that sort of shit, you can forget about.”

I take her arm but do it gently, like a prince escorting his lady, steadying her gait. She doesn’t need my assistance; I just want to feel her close. I walk us towards the curtained opening that leads to the dining room. A fire is still going next to the long table set for two. I’d dismissed all the staff to the adjacent property for the evening, but my dinner is still ready and waiting as ordered.

I pull a chair for Grace to sit and unfold the napkin to drape across her lap. I remove the silver dome from the plate in front of her. She smiles and thanks me. We’re just a normal couple having a quiet early dinner at home. Well, it’s normal for me anyway.

I take my seat and am happy to see that Grace doesn’t grab her silverware like a starved hillbilly at the county fair. Despite her display of uncouth eating habits at the diner, her table manners tonight are impeccable. We eat in relative silence. There’s the usual politeness of words exchanged over a well-prepared meal. Likes and dislikes are discussed but only about food and wine.

“You live here alone?” She appears thoughtful, looking up at the large artwork on my walls.

“Yes. Just me.” I pour some more wine for us and tip my glass to her. She smiles and does likewise. “My cousins come here from time to time. Cary and Sophia are the closest thing to family I have anymore, but there’s no one else. I don’t like visitors.” I don’t like sharing information about myself either, but it seems natural to do so sitting with her in my home.

“But you brought me here.”

“Ah, but you’re not a visitor.” She smiles at this, so I feel the need to clarify. “I mean that a visitor has the right to come and go, to enjoy the premises as they see fit, within social confines of course. You are not a visitor. You can’t come and go, and you’re only allowed access to what I give you, Grace.” I smile a little more mischievously, leaning into her. “And the only enjoyment you’ll have will be in pleasing me.”

I begin to doubt that she understands what I said because her look doesn’t change. No alarms go off in her head. She takes a tiny sip of wine and licks her lips nicely. When she responds to me, her voice is still husky and warm. “So you mean to keep me here? Against my will? Is that it? To what purpose?”

My smile is genuine, beaming at her. I was afraid for a moment that she was absolutely stupid. Crazy I can take. Stupid I can’t. I fucking hate spelling everything out. “Yes. I mean to keep you here. I’ve meant to keep you here for some time now.” She frowns slightly at this. As far as she knows, we’re almost strangers. I’ll keep her in the dark a little longer, reveal my knowledge of her in small increments. I want to get out of her all that I don’t know already over time. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Grace.”

I push back from the table, taking her hand. She rises with me, and I lead her through the grand hall again, towards the large curved stairs. I explain a few things along the way to my bedroom. “I have a job of sorts. It’s one that I’ve given to myself—a hobby, a sport that others appreciate as well. It’s lucrative, but that’s certainly not why I do it. I bring women here and train them to be perfect submissives for various clients.” She continues to smile, her hand relaxed against my arm.

In front of my bedroom door, she puts her hand on my chest to pause me. Leaning in with her lower body pressed to me, her eyes are nearly black under her lashes. “You mean to sell me.” It’s not a question. It’s almost a challenge. There’s no tremble to her deep voice.

I pull her face towards mine with a finger under her chin and kiss her gently. “No. I mean to keep you for myself.” I push open the heavy wooden door, the detailed carving a testament to an artisan long since gone. It was a trophy from a trip to India from a grandfather too far removed to remember how many greats to add. She walks into my room without any hesitation, smiling at the luxury and comfort within.

I watch as she moves about, running her hand over the silks, brocades, velvets. It’s an opulent room of riches, warm even on the coldest of days from the heaviness of the fabric used everywhere. The walls have been thickened too; I’ve made sure no sound can escape from here.

I allow the door to close loudly behind me, but she doesn’t jump. She does turn, though, to stand facing me in the center of the room. Without a word, she slowly removes her clothes, letting them fall to the floor at her feet. When completely naked, she puts her hands on her hips, jutting out their boniness for me to admire, pushing her small tits back but still up. It’s a runway pose that puts all her beauty on full display.

I admire her lack of fear, her boldness. For now anyway, it’s refreshing. I’m used to dealing with a sniveling, begging girl at this point. Grace is full of surprises. She’s kept me on my toes since I first saw her.

It’s dawning on me now just how much Grace might be used to rougher play already, that she’s not like the girls that have never tasted anything but vanilla for a sexual flavor. Undoing all that’s been done to her before, undoing her mindset of what she should or shouldn’t do, may take a bit more finessing with her added experience. Nothing pisses me off more than a submissive trying to top from the bottom.

“Come here.” She moves towards me with her cat walk. I’m only sorry that we aren’t farther apart; I had only a moment to bounce my eyes between her legs and breasts. Her skin is a dewy softness in the subdued lighting. “Undress me.”

She doesn’t hesitate, running her tongue up the opening along my neck to my ear as her fingers work down the buttons of my shirt. She pulls gently at the belt and pants opening, questioning with her eyes about the belt. I lift my smile in response and shake my head. No, I won’t be using a belt on her. I can’t tell if she pouts at this news; her lips go to my chest to hide her reaction too quickly.

I’ve been with pre-trained submissives before. I’ve checked out a few clubs with Cary in the area, always with mixed feelings. Although I can appreciate an already eager and primed product, I usually find that the training is too sloppy, haphazard. The girl believes she still has some control. Well, to be fair, in those clubs, that’s true. Rules of conduct all apply in those organizations, even in their so called ‘no limits’ rooms.

It’s why I started my business—supply meeting demand—to deliver a trained product to the exact specifications of my friends and associates. My girls have no delusions of any control. I’m quite proud, boastful even in the right circles, of the fact that I’ve never had a product try to run after a certain level of my training. The girls all succumb to their innately submissive natures. My training brings out the very best in them. The girls understand and embrace their destinies…in time anyway.

I’m not evil, well, sort of in the eyes of those too prudish to admit the truth. Our culture is too quick to forget its past. In less than three generations ago, the women running around trying to rule the world today would have legally been treated as no more than chattel. I choose to ignore the convention of today’s mores and laws. I adhere to a time long gone. It’s almost nostalgic really—a romance between a Master and his property in a time forgotten. I smile at my own musings as I let Grace continue her tongue’s journey down my body.

All my girls resign themselves to their fate quickly, not easily for some, but always quickly. Even for the most vanilla of my products, they learn to welcome any attention, cruel or tender, and yield to their own need to be dominated and used for pleasure. The girl does receive pleasure too. I’m not a monster. When she’s good and trained, she learns that it can come in the form of whips and chains, not hearts and flowers.

It’s a simple matter of selection. I take my time watching and learning about a girl before deciding that she’ll be right for a particular client’s needs. I suppose I knew all along that Grace would be for me. I wanted her for myself from the beginning, even as I toyed with the idea of selling her.

Grace is already on her knees, happily putting her mouth to good use. Her tongue trails up, down, and all around my stiff dick. While her lips press and squeeze, her fingers expertly rub up and down my length, pulling slightly on my balls. I could lose myself easily in the feeling, but tonight is about something much more interesting to me.

I grab a fistful of her glorious hair again, shoving her face deep against me. She’s a remarkable girl, able to take all of me without any gagging. She even drops her hands to her sides, offering her mouth completely, staying relaxed. She’s well-trained, but this only makes me scrutinize her more. Yanking her face away from me, her mouth stays wide open. I hold her in place, bending her back further. Her arms remain at her sides. Her tongue whips out to lick her lips; her chin is wet with moisture. Her eyes are trained on mine, but seductive, not afraid.

“You do that very well.” Her lips only curl in the slightest smile. “But you didn’t have my permission.” I run my free hand down her cheek, bending to take one nipple between my fingers. I twist it painfully, and her eyes only close for a second, her face remaining still. She doesn’t react with more than a small sigh when I squeeze harder. Interesting. Her nipples were sensitive to every touch earlier. Now, she’s ice.

“You didn’t have my permission to undress either.” She turns her pretty lips into a pretty pout and starts to speak, still with hardly any reaction to the obvious pain I’m causing her. A slight increase in breathing, a small flush to her cheeks—that’s all I get.

“And you don’t have permission to speak.” She’s quick to pop her mouth closed, same wicked grin playing across her lips. “Face down, on the floor.” I release her hair gently. She moves to the floor, a panther stretching out, not slowly, but her muscles move like oil under her skin, flexing and relaxing. Her ass is last to lower—two perfectly taut spheres with smooth, creamy skin. I have to stop a laugh at the thought of bouncing a quarter off her. Maybe later.

“You’ve obviously had a certain level of training before, Grace.” She only nods against the rug. “I hope for your sake, sweetheart, that it doesn’t interfere with my plans for you.” I walk over to a large burled armoire, an antique piece that has stood in this room since the house was built. Like so much of what is here, I have conformed it to my own tastes. Inside the double doors are my favorite toys, my tools of the trade—whips, chains, cuffs, crops, canes, plugs, ropes—all neatly organized and waiting for me.

I select a short leather whip, one of my favorites. I’ve had to replace it several times from overuse but always come back to the precision of this style. The size is perfect for my room, almost for any room in this house, and the leather is supple in my hand. I’m not sure the girls have always appreciated the quality of the leather, but I certainly have.

The single shortened tail can still produce a good sound, but it’s the closeness that I like. I can be near enough to smell the fear and pain. I can still get a good range of motion, a strong crack on flesh, but without the need to be further away like the whips I use in the cave.

Grace is beautiful on the floor, arms stretched over her head, relaxed against the rug. Her hair covers her face, fanning over her back. All of her is toned but delicate, strong but yielding. Normally, I would have the girl shackled for a first whipping, but I’m too tempted to see how Grace reacts on her own.

I push her hair to the side with the whip. Grace wiggles at the feather touch but remains silent. She knows what’s coming but doesn’t tense at all, only relaxes more. I raise the whip, an extension of my arm. It’s a motion that is second nature to me. The whoosh is small but adds an electrifying sound to the air as the leather comes down across her back. One thin river of red appears in an oasis of creamy skin. Only one small gasp escapes from Grace.

Without delays, I bring the whip up and down many more times. A multi-lined V forms on her back—lines that stretch onto her perfect ass, up her shoulders. Still only small cries, gasps, are all I get for my artistry. Her ass rises, back arches, muscles tense for only a moment, before she quickly relaxes back into place for the next strike. She’s a perfect whipping doll.

“Roll over.” She turns her body, sinewy, a snake on my rug now, until she’s lying exactly the same—relaxed, arms raised, legs straight in front of me. Remarkably, there’s not a single tear on her cheeks, not a shadow of fear in her eyes. She smiles serenely at me even.

I smile back, narrowing my eyes and studying her for a moment. Her breathing is quick but already slowing. I know the rug has to be adding to the sting on her back, but she shows no signs of discomfort. I move the whip, and her eyes follow it but still with no look of fear to them. Perhaps she’s never been whipped on her front? Maybe she has no idea of the level of pain that can be brought in this position?

“Keep very still for this, Grace.” She nods. “I wouldn’t want to damage your pretty face.” She smiles more at this. “Have you been whipped like this before?” She nods again. Hmm.

I bring the whip up dramatically, wanting to make the first strike the hardest. Her only reaction is to close her eyes just as the whip lands across her stomach and breast. Her small cry is lost against her upper arm. Her hands clasp and clench, her knees bend only slightly, but she remains still otherwise.

With each successive whoosh and crack, her cries get a little longer, a little louder, until a moan stretches from her lips. It’s intoxicating to hear her, to watch her. I feel light and almost dizzy when I’m finished. I’ve held my breath, not wanting to miss the slightest sound from her. Her sweet spicy scent fills the room. Not once did she cry out loudly or beg me to stop. She never showed fear, never smelled like fear, only arousal and yearning. Her legs rubbed together after the first welt.

I’m breathing as hard as she is. My blood pumps to my cock as I drop the whip. Her front is a crisscross of lines. I licked the whip down her legs, across her stomach, concentrated on her tits. She’s a mess of red and cream, deeper welts begging to be kissed. “Get up. On the bed.” I watch her move slowly—a cross between the snake and cat, sinewy and springy.

Her eyes are bright, but there’s still only a trace of tears on her face. She wobbles a little but stands confident. Before she can move to the bed, I grab her arms and smash her against me. I have to taste her mouth; I have to feel her skin. Her tongue fights against mine, forcing its way as much as mine does, not yielding, not submissive. She’s hungry and needing. Her skin almost burns mine, our sweat mingling.

I pull away but keep her close. Her eyes are fevered, her breath is panting; so is mine. I want her so much. I’ve never felt this before. Confusion and lust. I am usually so in control. Her show of strength against the pain, her will bent to perfect submission for each blow—it’s more than I expected. It’s what I’ve wanted from her.

I’ve had lesser women pass out on me after only a few stripes. Their own fear and emotions escalate the pain from every touch to an unbearable level, causing them to hyperventilate and lose consciousness before I get to anything fun. But no girl has ever taken so much so quickly, and with only the slightest hint at her level of pain.

I whisper against her, “Don’t you feel anything?” I feel her cheek rise in a smile as she presses herself against me more, not to ease the pain but to embrace it. Her skin is on fire; our sweat has to be increasing the sting of the deeper welts. She glides our bodies together, gasping.

“I feel everything. You are very skilled, Simon.”

I yank her away. Is she fucking with me? Playing her little game of bravado? No, her smile is serene. Her look is unmistakably one of lust and need.