Chapter Nine

Small consolations came in small doses. A quick email, a brief glance, the unexpected touch of his hand in public. Was I reading into these tiny acts a bigger relationship? I know I did. Even while I was imagining more from Preston Lockhart, I knew I was being foolish. But I couldn’t stop the hunger from surfacing. My appetite for him, for his instructions, his demands, his orders, his imperious looks, cool grim expressions and extraordinary energy of lust, only expanded with each day that passed. My hunger became my obsession—and Preston knew that. He knew he had me firmly bound by the promise of our erotic game.

He began to ask for me at lunchtime. He’d have me close the door behind me, drop to my knees and crawl to him, unzip his pants with my teeth and give him a blow job until he creamed my face with his cum. At first, it was strange being in such close proximity to his flesh. I assumed that he was rarely so intimate with women, and so I treasured the act, giving myself lovingly to his pleasure. I prayed for a night in bed with him—though that seemed to be far from his mind.

The oral sex was rarely passionate—just a way for him to release. He would tangle his fingers in my hair, sometimes push my face into his groin more deeply, at other times grip my scalp and give it rude, hair-pulling tug. The sensation radiated to my crotch, which lit up like a Christmas tree. Oh! How I prayed for a night in bed with him!.

Sometimes he’d slink further in his chair, drop his pants, and spread his legs apart. I’d suckle his balls, roll his weighty scrotum across my palm and tongue him deep inside his crotch, underneath. Quiet shudders would rip his body, shake it hard in the moment he came. One day, after we finished and he was put back together in his typically faultless way, I wiped my mouth, and he casually made an unexpected demand. “Bring me a copy of your house key before you leave today.”

“My house key?”

“Yes, your house key.” He hated having to repeat himself, but this time I was so surprised by the request that I couldn’t mask the fact.

I had lunch out of the office that day, spending the entire hour getting a copy made of my apartment key. When I handed it to him, I had to ask, “Can you tell me when you plan to visit?”

“No. I’ll visit when it suits me. Property doesn’t have the right to question. Property exists solely for the pleasure of their owner. Their single duty is to be available to fulfill their master’s needs.”

My life became colored by this new dimension of anticipation. My hours in the office had not been mine to plan for some months; now he took away the freedom in my private time as well. Though his demands on me in off hours were few, and often quickly over, there was rarely an hour in my day that I wasn’t waiting for his call, or the knock on the door, or more commonly, the turn of the key in the lock. I think he only called twice to see if I was home before he arrived, and even then, he didn’t tell me if he was coming for a visit. The first time he let himself inside no more than a half-hour later. The second time I waited up nearly half the night, and he never showed.

When he did come to my apartment, it was usually around eleven—and as often as three nights a week. He wanted the same sort of blowjobs he had in his office, but we got more explicit without the threat of exposure hanging over us. He would lay out on the bed, naked at his groin, and have me suck his dick to a huge erection… an act that took just seconds. I would move down to his scrotum, giving it the same loving attention I’d perfected in the office, and then sink deeper still. Lifting his ass off the mattress, I’d part his cheeks and rim his anus, jacking his dick until he was about to come. Then, with my fingers toying with his anus, my mouth returned to his cock, covering it, swallowing it, blowing it off until he shot down my throat. I gulped, taking every bit of his frothy jism.

His visits were no more than extended versions of the blowjobs in his office. Although that didn’t prevent me from the hope that soon, very soon, I’d have all of him in bed with me, loving me as much as I loved him.

***

During these first weeks of late night visits, the torture, bondage and humiliation ceased. The kinky games were set aside for sex. After a month, however, I was on assignment again, back at 42 North St. for a Friday evening.

I drove into the property as I had before, a little more confident about what I was doing, but probably more scared because I knew what might await me. I undressed at the door as I’d been instructed before and waited shivering until the old dame answered my knock. Hardly a thing had changed but the weather, and I was almost freezing by the time I was allowed inside.

“You’re late,” I was told abruptly.

Only because you wouldn’t answer the door, bitch! I exploded with anger on the inside, but didn’t say a word to her. I didn’t even sputter when she pushed me roughly into the kitchen and paddled my ass with a wooden spoon—just because she could, I suppose. It was just three minutes after the assigned hour. Late? I wasn’t late! She just wanted an excuse to abuse me herself, before the others in the house took over.

The scene in the living room was different this time, just a few men and women milling about the room where I’d been introduced before. As soon as I crawled inside, someone was there, clamping a thick iron collar around my neck and attaching it to a wrist cuff that was placed around my left wrist. My ankles were both cuffed in irons and attached with a chain. Either on foot, or on my knees, moving proved difficult. Once shackled, I was told to sit in a corner and wait. “Head on the carpet, arms behind your back.” This took a little work, since my one wrist was cuffed to my collar, but there was enough slack in the chain to make it possible, and I managed, if not as graceful as I would have wished.

I waited for some time, thinking, wondering, uncertain how I felt about the house, about the assignment, about this humiliation. It seemed so cold to me, so calculating. I suspected I was not aroused. But I realized later that I was just denying the facts as I had before. I must have drifted, my mind vacating for a time, while the room filled with people. When I was suddenly jerked awake, I moved up on my knees and stared into the eyes of the man who’d bound me.

“At the door, your master is waiting.”

My was heart instantly engaged, excitement, jubilation lifting my spirits. I pulled the chain back over my head so that I could crawl to the front door and greet Preston.

But it wasn’t Preston at the door—not the man, nor the attitude, nor the good looks, nor the cool dominant charm, which had so enticed me to my secret, sexy, kinky life. Instead, a stranger doffed his coat, expecting me to rise to my feet, take it from him and hang it on the hall tree. I did so dutifully. He was a big man, muscled, forceful, heavy jowled, with piercing eyes and confidence reeking from an explosive energy that both annoyed me and aroused me.

After hanging up his coat, I returned to his side, and he inspected me thoroughly, teeth, gums, hair, cunt, ass, flesh, skin, breasts. Pinching my nipples, he pulled them until I squealed—for which he gave me a stinging smack on my ass.

“Containment, bitch. Remember that. And say on your feet. I’ll tell you when I want you to grovel.”

I followed him into the big room, which was now filled with men, women and their slaves. There was chatter, back-slapping conversation, jokes, and typical cocktail party talk. I served my master a vodka martini, and when he slumped into a lounge chair, he forced me to my hands and knees, making a table of my back, where he precariously balanced his drink. I was certain that any second, it would topple off, and I’d be in for one hell of a punishment. He wasn’t the kind of man I wished to cross, or disobey, or disappoint. I probably would have pulled off the stunt, if I hadn’t glanced to the side of me and upward, realizing to my surprise that Preston was in the room, talking casually to a group of men. Some I recognized, some were strangers to me. The surprise jolted my body just enough to send the master’s vodka martini to the floor, where the half-drunk cocktail spread like indelible ink over the forest green carpet. Oh, it would clean up just fine, even though at the time it looked like a permanent stain. The drink had also splashed on the master’s boots, and before I could even think, he pressed my face to the leather and ordered me to clean it up. He held me by the collar at the nape of my neck. I could hardly breathe, but I managed to tongue his dusty wet boots to a shine, while enduring the nasty taste.

At some point in the middle of my task, the master began to paddle my ass with wood—spoon, hairbrush, slat? I wasn’t sure what he used. But it was hard and nasty, making my ass sweltering hot, and more deeply bruised the longer he rained his blows on my behind. He then pressed my nose to the carpet, pushing it into the fibers. “Shall we try again, slut?” he wondered aloud.

“I’m so sorry, sir. Yes, I would like to try.”

He fingered my cleft, assuring himself that was I was adequately aroused and wet between my legs. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t leaking cum juice down my thighs. Maybe my body is just a sucker for pain. I don’t know what makes me wet, but I certainly didn’t enjoy the feel of wood smacking my behind—especially that day.

After completely embarrassing me in front of the crowd and Preston—he shooed me off to find him another drink. When I returned with his martini, I spotted Preston again briefly. He took quick note of me, eyeing me with a critical stare I’d become accustomed to—which made me quake like a sad child, praying for rescue. I should have known better. At his side was his little ‘subbie’, all frail and sweet and innocent looking. I envied her. The pain of my jealousy made my body ache far beyond the physical blows I’d just received.

I suffered in silence as I made a table of my back for the master’s drink. Blinding myself to my surroundings, I focused solely on completing the assignment. I didn’t shake. I didn’t falter. Not even the slightest quivering in my muscles betrayed the intense feeling of abandonment, loss and grief I felt inside. I suppose the situation made me irrational. I worried that the scene was more than a game, perhaps even a transfer in ownership. But I didn’t want this burly beast, I wanted Preston and the life he’d given me the last eight months.

The night wore on rather uneventfully. The brute master—we were never actually introduced and I never learned his name—wanted me for little more than a pedestal, or a plaything at his disposal. While other submissives were off to the basement dungeons, or tiptoeing behind their masters to the bedrooms in the second story of the house, I remained in the great room with this pompous fellow. After I successfully held his drink until he was finished with it, I then sat on my knees, resting my ass on my legs. Occasionally his hand reached out and fingered my hair. He would absently stroke my face or tweak a tit—all gestures of ownership. These little things scared me even more. What if? What if Preston had given me away for good?

From where I knelt at this master’s side, I could see into the foyer of house, where the big staircase rose gracefully to the second story landing. I could see much of the comings and goings that night. There was little else to do but observe, and the activity was enough to keep me interested. I wondered about the pairings of masters and slaves, some seemed strange, but intriguing, and I pretended that I could peek inside the scenes and guess what happened in their private time. My musing helped to pass the endless hours, while the man at my side continued to talk nonstop about subjects that bored me. I figured the night was about licked, my stint nearly over, when abruptly my deliberations regarding the houseguests got personal and frightening. I watched in horror as Preston, with his hand on his little subbie’s round buttocks, led her up the stairs to the second floor. My gut clenched in panic. And then suddenly I didn’t care anymore what he did with her—fuck her or abuse her—it was too much. I wanted out. For sixty seconds it took every force of will I had to keep from bolting the room. I managed to hang on, but probably only because the master, at long last, stood up, lifting me by the hair as he did. He hauled me upstairs to a private room.

Once we entered the bedroom, he tossed me to the bed, and ordered me to my hands and knees. Tearing away his clothes, he moved in behind my ass, and plunged his erection deeply in my rectum. I suppose he greased the opening first; although I don’t remember when. I remember only that it didn’t hurt, that his cock slid in easily, and for some really strange reason, he was able to bring me off while he fucked himself to climax. His hands moved over me, caressing me, even mauling me with brutal force. At the same time, his erection claimed that dark territory of my body with greater erotic passion than I’d experienced from any man. I came screaming, while he came screaming, with pleasure pouring over me like a stinging shower of rain.

I should never have given him the satisfaction of seeing me come. I worried later that it was a tactical blunder. But then, maybe it made no difference what I did. I wasn’t in charge. It wasn’t my game. I had no say in my fate.

Later that night, the big man gave me to a couple of other men for simple fucks. But again it was only my ass that got used. No one touched my cunt, as if I were some sacred vestal virgin and it wasn’t yet time to break me in, as if Preston was saving that for himself. No one ever explained, and I didn’t have the nerve to ask.

I didn’t see Preston or his subbie again, not during the long hours of my sleepless night, or in the morning, when the group gathered again for brunch. Later in the day, my Dom of the hour released me and sent me home.