Read chapter one here.
“I have no idea whether this makes sense or not,” Steven told O, “but I’m going to find out. Get undressed. I’ll be back in a few minutes. This is where I want to find you.”
Steven turned and vanished down alongside the glass wall.
Steven’s outsize bedroom, on the other side of a sturdy wall he’d built from where he pictured her stripping at the moment, was also open to the exterior glass so he could kick back in his giant, girder-framed bed and keep an eye on the city. The walls were upholstered in a rich, dark red fabric. Metal chests trimmed in rivets and leather straps ran floor to ceiling on one side with a sliding ladder on a built-in track for accessing the upper drawers. A row of classic, white oak machinist’s chests and big, framed mirrors stood neatly arranged along the other. The bed, slightly elevated on a low platform, was fitted with steel rings at the corners and along the beams, the mattress spread with a black Pratesi duvet trimmed in the trademark triple striping, also red. Low, recessed lights set high around the perimeter gave little competition to the illuminated skyline outside the glass.
A door at the back not far from the bed gave into Steven’s dressing area. Nearly as large as the bedroom itself, its burl wood interior was lined with drawers, cabinets, hanging bars and three-way mirrors. It was all from a once-exclusive men’s shop, the interior of which Steven had purchased, dismantled and recreated in his loft when the shop went broke.
Furnished only with a large, tufted-leather bench in the center, it was as orderly as if still open for business. Every suit, jacket, shirt and pair of trousers hung in neat rows organized by color and design. Piles of cashmere sweaters were stacked in glass-fronted cases. Rolled socks, ties and scarves were tucked into rows of open cubbyholes. A door with a porthole in it, one of the few doors in the whole place, permitted entrance to a black marble bathroom equipped with every kind of plumbing fixture imaginable, all equipped with chrome spouts and hoses and thermostats.
Steven went straight to the mirrored double doors above the twin sinks, switched on the surrounding makeup lights and snagged a pill bottle from the cabinet on the left. He swallowed two blue diamond tabs with a handful of water from the faucet. It was pure drug abuse. He didn’t need chemical assistance. He just enjoyed two-hour hard-ons. His agenda was often elaborate and he liked to pursue it at his own pace. What a miracle drug they’d invented for perverts!
If this wasn’t to be a one-time thing, as the passing of the keys suggested it wouldn’t be, best not to hurry. No need to go to the back room this visit. Its wonders could wait. Simple, deliberate and direct felt right.
Back in his private boutique, where everything was the perfect size and color, Steven undressed. His system for dismantling himself never varied. O might well be naked not far away by now. She would wait for him. Waiting was part of it.
The rose stickpin came out first, to be skewered into the red felt inside the fitted-leather dressing box on the long, low chest next to the bathroom door. His plain, round platinum and jet cufflinks went there too, in a different compartment from the toggled chain bracelet and the onyx ring. The engraved card case and pillbox dropped into their spaces and the leather box shut with a firm click. Drawing the red-and-black pocket square, Steven shook it out, folded it neatly and slid it into a narrow drawer with many like it and many others more ornate. There was another drawer for glasses an optometrist might have envied. The wallet joined a dozen more in a locked cabinet and the fountain pen slid into a vertical rack inside a glass case so crowded with extravagant writing instruments it resembled an ant farm. His watch joined a dozen others in a motorized Tourbillion auto-winder with a skeleton movement.
He caught a quick glimpse of himself in the three-way fitting mirror. Steven’s looks didn’t inspire vanity, but his style did. Style, his mother had taught him, was a weapon in the arsenal, and Steven enjoyed shedding his armor less than he enjoyed putting it on. He’d gotten the dimple in that tie just right today. Shame to wreck it. Steven had often stayed dressed for the girls who fetishized the power-suit guy. But on this occasion, everything must go. Steven unknotted the tie as carefully as he had earlier pulled it into the perfect four-in-hand. No yanking on the woven silk. The tie department was a controlled riot of color where today’s choice, snugly rolled, went back to its cubicle in the red-and-black section.
He tossed his brightly lined suit jacket lightly onto the leather bench, revealing his devil’s red braces. Back in the day, a gentleman never showed his braces to anyone with whom he was not intimate, and these were racier in their way than the more pornographic embroidered ones he wore expressly to be seen. In the now open-collared red shirt, one of a dozen he had Turnbull make up for him, and the suit trousers with their razor-edge waist-to-cuff pleats, Steven briefly considered going back out to O just as he was. Remembering that this was not a seduction, he settled the braces on their hook, hanging the suit in the DB department (laying the broad lapels flat to avoid folding over the peaks) and treeing the boots before sliding them into the ranks of footwear ranged along half a dozen shelves. The shirt went to the dry-cleaning compartment, underwear and socks to the concealed hamper.
For one moment, Steven looked at himself naked.
He was already feeling the first hot flush of the drug hitting his system and he didn’t yet know the precise interval for O at which anticipation turned to boredom.
From the long bar of robes and dressing gowns, he continued today’s theme with a heavy, black-silk T&A, its wide, quilted shawl lapels and matching cuffs piped in red. How many pairs of skull-embroidered velvet slippers could one man wear in a lifetime? Steven’s own extravagances made him cringe occasionally, but now was not the moment for introspection. O was expecting him to be his bad self, what most women wanted from him. He lowered the lights and headed out to tonight’s arena.
As expected, he found O in the living room, displayed as precisely as all the artifacts he kept under glass. Stripped to her red-soled pumps, stay-ups, the long gloves she’d impulsively slipped back on and the collar around her neck, O knelt on her high heels in the middle of the dragon rug. Her knees were wide apart, her hands still laced behind her head like the condemned awaiting execution, shoulders squared, breasts out, chin straight, eyes lowered.
When Steven entered the room, stopped and stared, a slight tremor washed over her, though of course she didn’t turn her head to look at him. She was the one there to be looked at.
Steven was perfectly rude about taking in the view, making her stand at attention, walking around her, looking high and low. Yes, there were surprises. O could have rouged her nipples a shade darker so the rings would have stood out more, but they were far from inconspicuous. Though only an inch and a half in diameter, they were wicked thick, agonizingly stretched from an initial ten gauge to their current six. Plain stainless with black hematite captive-bead closings, they clearly wanted to be grabbed, weighted, tied and made to hurt.
Steven took in the slender shoulders and spectacular, natural teardrop breasts of the type for which women in this town paid vast sums and still didn’t get. O’s belly, flat and cut from fanatical exercise, her perfectly sculpted pink lower lips Steven and Ray had admired; the high, tight buttocks and long straight legs with slender ankles; all comprised a fine inventory and both Steven and O knew it.
Steven could see O’s pulse thumping in her carotids. A droplet of sweat trickled in each armpit. He was quite certain she was dripping elsewhere too. The tightening, throbbing bulge rising under his silk robe was just as apparent to the two of them.
Steven let her stay at attention as he plucked the half joint from the ashtray and fired it up with the giant lighter, inhaling a big hit. He approached O at leisure, his head wreathed in smoke. He seemed so accustomed to having whatever he wanted, absolutely devoid of shame or doubt. And she was alone with him at last. Now nothing stood between him and whatever he wanted of her. He stopped in front of O’s face, tracing her cheek with a fingertip.
“I love this moment,” he said quietly. “So full of promise.”
In the heavy silence of the vast room, its lights dimmed, the illuminated city at their feet, they shared an interval of limitless possibility. Steven held the joint up in front of her. O leaned forward and took a hit without using her hands. Steven got the closer look he wanted, impressed by the lean muscularity beneath her flawless skin.
“You’re a fit bitch, aren’t you?”
“I try to maintain myself in good working condition, Sir.”
Her address was so correct it came edged in an irony that inspired rudeness.
“You stink like sweat and sex,” he said. “And no perfume. I like that.”
“Sir has a keen sense of smell.”
“Not always a blessing in this world, but right now, I’m quite grateful for it.”
Flicking the roach into the porcelain Cohiba ashtray on a glass end table, he pulled O into him and kissed her, his hands reading her body like a blind man’s reads Braille. He was good at these things, neither tentative nor rough. His lips pressed hard on hers, but his tongue explored her mouth with surprising delicacy.
Skilled fingers rolled the steel rings back and forth beneath the tinted, stippled flesh. Steven loved the sensation of hard metal moving under tender skin. O’s already-half-erect nipples crinkled up around the jewelry. Her surprisingly blue web of milk veins stood out against the paler skin of her breasts.
Steven’s other hand came up between her legs and took hold firmly at their juncture, his warm palm pressing against her wetness. O managed to hold position, but there was no resisting the urge to rub against his open hand. O’s clit was almost embarrassingly large even when soft, which it most certainly wasn’t now, and it had its own agenda that would not be denied.
Wrapping his unoccupied hand in her hair, he pulled her face back from his.
“You’re also a fast starter,” Steven said. He didn’t overdo it, but a little humiliation spiced the mix. For people like themselves, without the knowledge of shame there could be no pleasure.
O’s voice came out huskier than she would have preferred. She wanted to be cool to this man, but it seemed impossible. She was uncomfortably aware of her visibly rapid breathing.
“I have no resistance to pleasure or pain, Sir,” she said as matter-of-factly as possible.
“And I can see why Ray has no resistance to you. I imagine most men react that way.”
“Some women as well, Sir.”
Steven laughed, face splitting into a wide grin. He was nothing if not jolly, but how deep did that go and what lay underneath? Her hair still wound into his grip, there was no avoiding his gaze.
“I’m sure. That must be helpful in the studio.”
“Sometimes. Models can be very competitive.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
When he kissed her this time, it was much deeper and rougher, his strong hands plastering her up against the heavy silk of his robe. The kiss lingered, but when it was over, he pushed her away a carefully calculated distance and slapped her across the left cheek with perfect precision, exactly in the middle of the fleshy part, just hard enough to sting and leave a light handprint. O didn’t flinch. In fact, she looked up at him with a surprised smile.
“You really know how to hurt a girl, Sir,” she said brightly.
“Lots of practice,” he said.
Taking her by her collared throat, he smacked her across the right breast with a loud splat. The ring at the tip flashed in the light.
“Ouch,” O said, still smiling at him as the stinging spread out from the point of impact. Yes, he was an evil bastard and he wanted her to know it. Spinning her like a top, he gathered her in against him back to front. Something thick and hard poked through the smooth fabric of the robe to rub against the groove between O’s buttocks. O wondered if that where he would go first. Ray said he liked doing girls up the butt. If so, he wasn’t in any hurry, stroking the front of her body firmly up and down with one hand while the other still gripped her solidly between the legs. A shivering moan rose from deep in her chest. She was so small in his arms, gloved hands at last disentwining to reach back around his bullish neck.
“You’re made for this, aren’t you?” he whispered in her ear, which was decorated with a simple diamond stud edged in jet to match her stowed necklace.
“Made to be used, Sir?” she asked with mocking innocence.
“Made to play the slave.”
O stiffened, suddenly offended. She broke the embrace and turned to face him.
“You think this is just play for me?”
“It’s certainly a convenient way of getting what you need. After all, you’re only following orders. It’s not your fault.”
Her tilted eyes narrowed at his taunting. Her clenched teeth were straight and white.
“I never pretend to be virtuous. If I didn’t like myself as I am I’d be some other way. Sir.”
“Well,” Steven said pleasantly, “another thing we have in common. I won’t judge you for your nature if you won’t judge me for mine.”
O felt her flash of anger fade. It wouldn’t be easy, staying mad at this guy. She cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him.
“And what nature is that, Sir?”
“Cruel but generous. And pathologically cheerful.”
He came forward suddenly and scooped her off the rug like a rag-doll. His shoulders seemed even bigger with her gloved arms wrapped around them. He gave off a faint citrus scent, something subtle and expensive. O couldn’t refrain from smiling when he swung her around, carrying her toward the vast, steel-topped table. It had been a long time since a man had made her feel so weightless. She extended a leg for his visual pleasure.
Effortlessly, Steven conveyed her to the longer side of the table, moving a chair out of the way with a velvet slipper before perching her on the edge so her feet dangled just off the floor. Finding her balance, she put her hands back behind her head and opened her knees as far apart as possible. The neat, straight line between her thighs popped open in full, dewy bloom.
“My, she’s a naughty little thing, isn’t she?
O’s shoulders rose and fell, taking her breasts along.
“She has a mind of her own, Sir.”
“With which you seldom disagree. Very smooth too. Shave or wax?”
“Laser, everywhere from the neck down – arms, legs, everywhere. I’ve always hated hair on my body. I started shaving at fifteen but I could never get it all off. Now I’m like this permanently.”
“I admire your dedication. Take off your gloves. I want to see what you do when you’re alone.”
The table was chilly under O’s backside, but she got herself as comfortable as possible on it, unbuttoning and tugging off each glove, folding them onto the table next to her left leg. One hand went to her right breast, twisting and tugging hard on the fat ring. The other dropped straight to her lower lips, squeezing them together and rolling them back and forth. Steven smiled to see that her pink nail polish was a dead match for the color of her most intimate flesh. He would have wagered the building he stood in that her pedicure was identical.
O could certainly have made a performance of masturbating for him, displaying herself far more bawdily, but he hadn’t asked for that. He wanted to know what she did when she was alone, and this was how she started, gradually, working into a slow, circular massage that made her inner juiciness quite audible.
Steven appreciated the precision of her obedience. Sliding comfortably in against her nylon-sheathed thigh, he unhitched the tasseled belt of his robe to join in.
It was often difficult for O to keep her eyes down, but not when there was something worth looking at. They went straight to the rigid flesh that popped out to greet her. Both at work and at leisure, O had many occasions to appreciate male anatomy when it justified her interest, but that was far too seldom. Steven had just what she liked – not much longer than usual, but appealingly girthy, with a narrow, cleanly circumcised head expanding rapidly to broad bulge, then tapering back in with a slight upward curve. It was rock-hard and clearly very happy to be so close to her.
Steven rubbed it against the stocking, holding her by the neck.
“Sir has a nice one, if I might take the liberty of saying so.”
“I’m quite attached to it myself.” His tone was affable enough.
“Permission to touch?”
“By all means.”
O’s touch didn’t disappoint. Still masturbating with one hand, the other was warm and her grip was firm and assured, her stroke slow and knowing, with a slight twist at the end. Steven felt the swelling increase, the throbbing grow more urgent.
“You’re quite accomplished at that, aren’t you?”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“Of the fact that you’re a slut who’s an expert on cocks?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m dreadfully promiscuous.”
“I’m shocked. Hands back now.”
O was approaching the edge, but she stopped short and complied. Steven took O’s nipple rings and a healthy chunk of the meat in which they were anchored between the thumb and index finger of each hand.
“Tell me when it stops feeling good.”
He began to pinch, the pressure rising gradually until O’s head swam and she moaned.
“You enjoy being hurt this way,” he observed.
“Yes, Sir. You can go harder if you like.”
O’s pain tolerance followed a familiar bell curve, rising as she approached orgasm and, no doubt, descending rapidly after climax.
“Shall I give you a safeword?”
“I’ve had them before but never used one … Sir.”
“Fine then. Just tell me if something’s wrong and I’ll take that into consideration.”
When he pulled her up by the rings almost off the edge of the table, she let out an unexpected yelp. He kept her up there a long minute, her shoulders lifted and back straightened to relieve the pressure, her laced fingers tightening behind her collar.
“Is that something you don’t like?”
“No, Sir,” O said between gritted teeth. “I can take a lot there before it hurts in a bad way.”
“Very good. One thing you will be forbidden is modesty in any form. If you’re to belong to me, nothing must be concealed, physically or otherwise.”
“Down you go, my dirty girl.”
Placing his open hand against her breastbone, he gave O a surprisingly hard shove, landing her flat on her back on the table. It felt freezing under her, shaking loose a cry of surprise. Her freshly abused nipples suddenly popped up even harder as a wave of goose bumps rolled down the length of her body.
“It’s meant to be cold. Put your legs on my shoulders and lie still.”
O rested her ankles lightly on either side of his face, expecting the abrupt penetration for which they both certainly appeared ready, but Steven was not one to be hurried, ever. Instead, he bent down and slapped her face back and forth. He kissed her repeatedly, starting at her mouth, which she made as accommodating as possible for him. Working his way down her collared throat, he paused at the engorged tip of each breast to tug the rings between his teeth for a moment. Then he continued down the furrow of her belly, his lips warm and dry on O’s skin. She tried to stay still and open, but she really didn’t want what was coming next.
It wasn’t that O disliked oral stimulation, but most men were so god-awful at it she’d rather they didn’t try. All that frantic flicking, usually concentrated in the most obvious spot. Please, let this one not be that way.
Much to her surprise, Steven ate pussy like a dyke. Fastening his mouth around her splayed parts, he sucked her wholly into his mouth, applying his tongue in lazy circles across the entire landscape of her membranes. `
Involuntarily, O felt her legs wrap tight around his neck, hearing what sounded like a muffled laugh from far below. She wasn’t the first woman he’d surprised in this way.
Picking up speed, licking and sucking harder, neither shy nor aggressive, he went at it systematically, carefully noting every twitch and gasp, adjusting his motions accordingly. As Steven once advised Ray, “Show me a master who doesn’t give killer head and I’ll show you one who’s soon to be replaced.”
O grabbed the edge of the table, clutching with all her might. He’d let her do most of the work herself and now had only to apply the necessary attention directly to her clit. Steven applied himself to it with careful determination, one hand wrapped around a rocking thigh, the other snaking up to close over her throat above the collar. His grip tightening, he felt her whole body stiffen and arch.
“Please, Sir,” she gasped, “permission to come.”
Sliding a hand over O’s wet parts to keep her warm, he looked up at her with an evil grin.
“Does girl deserve it?”
“Please, Sir. Girl needs it.”
“Then girl will pay the price after.”
Steven dropped his head back into her lap and O’s heels pressed into his shoulders as the bright flush that always gave her away spread over her chest. She went rigid, slapped her palms down on the surface, threw back her head and let out a shockingly indecorous howl. Her entire body clenched into a crunch, lifting half off the cold steel. Her hands flew to the back of his head as he felt her pelvic bones grind against his face. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils, burrowing in deep, but halting his movements until O’s spasms faded. He knew better than to suck past the money.
Slowly detaching himself, he leaned into her flushed, damp face. O’s hair fell to one side and her eyes were closed so tight the mascaraed lids wrinkled.
“That seems to work,” Steven pronounced with the satisfaction of a mechanic hearing a starter kick over.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” O panted.
“I like the way you taste,” he said, “Get up.”
“I’m a little dizzy, Sir.”
“I should hope.”
He stood straight, took her by the hands and pulled her onto her perilous heels. O swayed slightly, seeking her balance.
“Here, I’ll make it easy for you.”
Swinging O around, Steven placed her hands flat on the table, yanking her hips back until her rump grazed the front of his robe. He casually kicked her ankles wide apart, exposing a long, shiny, liquid streak down the inside of her right thigh. O made no attempt to brush it away. She was certainly more stable this position, but even as the whirling subsided in her brain, she felt a chill of anxiety. He said he was cruel and generous. She guessed the cruel part was next.
“Lovely. Stay just like that.”
Steven left her there, strolling over to the silver-handled crop dangling from its hook. He was in no hurry about it, losing none of his perpendicularity en route. To her disappointment over the years, O had found many men couldn’t concentrate on more than one thing at a time. Somehow, she suspected, that wouldn’t be a problem here.
Steven lifted the crop by its pommel-ring and cheerily tossed it in the air. It did a single loop just under the lights and dropped, handle-first, into his grip. Since she wasn’t meant to look, the flourish was not for O’s benefit, just a spontaneous expression of exuberance. This property was now his, for however long, to enjoy as he pleased. At the moment, it pleased him to hurt her. There was no anger in his lust, just cruelty as he had promised. He strolled over, pacing slowly back and forth behind her.
O’s composure had limits. Her eyes began following him under the fringe of her hair. It was all she could do to keep her head still.
She’d expected strong legs from all that fencing, but not the dancer’s sinews or the loose-limbed gait. Steven’s gut, visible through the widening split of his robe, was even harder than hers, a slab of flagstone mounted on his sharply defined waist.
Already knowing the strength of Steven’s arms, it dawned on O that if she cared to resist him in anything, it wouldn’t matter at all. And from the safest perspective, down between her open legs, she saw that up-tilted ram rise even further. The anticipation of hurting her got him harder. This delicious realization made O dizzy again.
Finally, he stopped behind her. Tucking the whip under an arm, he dropped a hand between her shoulders, pressing her tits to the steel surface, still only slightly warmed by her body heat, and pushing down on her back to extend her hindquarters to him. O reached for the opposite edge of the table, figuring she’d need to hold on tight. Satisfied, Steven stroked the side of her face softly with the business end of the crop. He felt a wave of tenderness for her, as he always did toward those who endured to satisfy him.
The leather was smooth against O’s cheek and smelled of regular dressing.
“It’s my favorite,” Steven explained, “ideally balanced and easily controlled. I assume you’re still light-headed.”
“A bit, Sir. It was a very powerful orgasm.”
“Girls are always more pliable after the first one. And particularly sensitive. They’re far more readily broken by pleasure than pain, which is why I never deny them, though I still expect the courtesy of a request before coming.”
“I’ll try to remember, Sir.”
He moved in close, rubbing his cock along her flank, his hand finding its way underneath her to the right spot. Even a gentle contact made her jump, heels clicking back on the floor as quickly as possible. Such tiny lapses always amused him.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, still using her as a masturbatory object, “if it’s too hard, raise your right foot. If you want more, wiggle your ass.”
“That wouldn’t be impertinent, Sir?”
“It’s never impertinent for a slave to show off her ass.”
Stepping back, Steven went to en garde, crop extended. Every girl took the whip differently. Steven never ceased to marvel at the variety of their responses.
The first stroke was light and crisp, delivered to the lower curve of O’s butt-cheek with a slight upward cut at the point of impact. It hardly stung, but conveyed the general idea. Steven always gave fair warning. He was good about that.
Moving behind her in an unhurried stride, he took his time, positioning himself for each blow.
In his head, as always, Steven made choices. Whip. Touch. Fuck. It was an intoxicating combination of sensations, but his choices, once made, were never haphazardly mixed. He worked the crop in precise half-circles over the tops of O’s rear curves, each impact a bit harder, painting a deeper-hued stripe, proceeding from light pink to crimson as the instrument traveled back and forth like a metronome.
Steven watched and listened with complete attention – the speed at which the color rose on O’s flesh, the increasingly rapid contractions of her diaphragm, the accelerating sway of her hips. Steven liked making girls ask for it, beg for it. Their pleasure was his power.
Every ten strokes precisely, he paused, draping his arm around O’s waist, balancing the whip on her tailbone and sliding his fingers under her, around her wet zone, sometimes inside, probing expertly for any spot that produced a particularly intense response.
If O typically found men’s tongues disappointing, she positively dreaded their big fingers mauling her insides. But this man did not maul. He pushed buttons with the expertise of a skilled pilot.
Uppercuts to the lower surfaces now, swift and sure to the point where the line between pain and pleasure was more brightly drawn, though O was equally happy on either side of it. She was only distantly aware of her swaying rump, inviting him to strike harder.
Steven never declined such an invitation. He loved the meaty thump of leather on muscle, the rippling of skin outward from the point of impact, the knowledge that not only was he inflicting pain on someone he desired, but inducing her to like it.
The crop’s broad head distributed the energy as widely as possible, but it lacked nothing for bite. Now the focus moved inward, making O jump with the sudden, hard shots to the inner thigh. Liking the effect, Steven lingered, laying a row of triangular prints laddered from knee to crotch on both sides.
Curiosity overcoming both etiquette and common sense, O lifted her head and looked straight back over her shoulder at him. He was masturbating unabashedly with his unoccupied hand, smiling broadly, gleaming eyes focused to coordinate his aim. His movements were as ball bearing smooth as she presumed his saber advance to be. That hard, weathered face bore none of the usual affected sternness or stagy detachment that had become so wearying during the final days before Ray had reclaimed her from The Mansion.
Steven was in the moment, fully relaxed and loving it. O wasn’t the kind of selfish pain-addict who simply lived to have her itch scratched until it bled, submitting only for the purpose of seducing a partner into helping her get her freak on. She liked to see a man enjoy her so thoroughly. Pleasing made her confident and the indisputable evidence of Steven’s pleasure stood up between his legs like a tree-branch.
He had always been the kind of kid who tied up other kids, and when he reached puberty, he tied up girls. His first, a year ahead of him in school and improbably a cheerleader, had asked him to spank her with a belt before the first time they fucked.
Steven was convinced that there was a kind of transponder in those for whom sexual cruelty was as orientational as gender identity that sent out a signal others like themselves could read. He’d been turned down on his terms of engagement very few times in his life and he had never hesitated to state them clearly. Whatever guilt or shame so many men seemed to have over such impulses had been left out of him at the factory, along with certain other usual components, including jealousy and the urge to reproduce.
“Put your head back down, silly girl,” he said good naturedly, “and we’ll see if I can keep your mind from wandering.”
The sharp snap up between the legs commanded O’s attention wonderfully. She let out a yelp when the leather connected with a wet splat, but the tingling that followed, building atop the growing heat of the surrounding regions, was delicious.
“May I have another please, Sir?”
“Oh, absolutely. Have a couple.”
He delivered them smartly, with hardly a respite in between. O gasped and moaned.
“Thank you, Sir. That’s wonderful. Would Sir like me to count?”
“Oh god no. I hate formality for its own sake. I’ll whip you until I’m ready to do something else.” He continued a long time, halting unpredictably to massage O’s hotspot as he’d seen her do it, pinched between her neat, hairless labia. Back to whipping, he never stayed in one place too long, distributing the strokes evenly, left and right, high and low, until O’s ass glowed red all over, highlighted by darker crimson streaks.
Rubbing his fingers lightly across it, he could feel the rising welts. They weren’t deep and wouldn’t bruise. Most of the color would be gone by the next day, but for a first time, they served their purpose, providing him with an alluring view. He set the whip on the table where she could look at it and moved in behind her.
Pausing one last moment to look at all those splotches of scarlet, he took her by the hips and made a hands-free, unhurried entrance, the head of his cock pushing into O’s tenderized opening very slowly with a single, drawn-out thrust. Normally, he would have greased her up with some silicone lube first, but his earlier probing had satisfied him that she was wet enough already. She moaned and he felt her whole body go limp on the table. Snug and warm within, she was a perfect fit in every way, her small stature making her easy for him to slide in from the rear despite her tall heels.
Never one to hurry his indulgences, Steven took her in long, slow strokes, feeling her strong internal muscles grasping for him at every withdrawal. Swinging his hips in slow circles, he held her down flat with a hand in the middle of her back. It was a gesture she understood the way a well-trained horse understood a light tug on the reins and she stayed completely still from the waist up, only lifting her heels slightly and swiveling her pelvis each time he filled her again. The heat of her fresh welts tingled against Steven’s hard abs. He couldn’t resist raising the temperature with occasional random blows from an open hand, each of spurred O into grinding back harder.
Steven relished the control his chemically boosted arousal gave him, allowing him to speed up or back off without losing one PSI of internal pressure. He could stir O’s insides with lazy orbits; deliver a hard volley of pounding strokes, then back down again long before anything unexpected could occur. Steven couldn’t remember a single unscheduled orgasm in his entire life and doubted he’d ever have one. O, however, let out a pitiful whimper and began hammering at him so hard she rocked the heavy table. Her back heaved and her voice was high and thin when she pleaded for permission. Though it was a courtesy he demanded, Steven never said no to such a request, knowing that the more orgasms a woman had the more she was likely to, and that always worked in his favor.
After a few particularly deep, rough jolts, he slammed his hips against O’s sweaty backside and held her tight around the middle. O wailed, shaking her head from side to side, babbling out her gratitude along with assorted invocations of various deities and a few curses. This time, the telltale red flush rose along O’s spine. He stroked her affectionately while her breathing slowed to normal.
“That must have been a good one,” he observed calmly, his hard rod still now, but pulsing inside her from the blood pumping through his dilated vessels.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Penetration works best for me, but you can also get me off with a vibrator if you like.”
“You really don’t hold anything back, do you?”
O was still breathing hard.
“It’s a slave’s duty to keep her master informed, Sir.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
Steven could read his partners with the expertise of vast experience, but preferred not to have to.
“I’m going to enjoy you from the front now,” he said, sliding his arms under her shoulders and raising her onto her feet. O staggered a bit turning around and her face was as flushed and sweaty as the rest of her, stray wisps of hair clinging to her cheeks.
“Want to see first?
He guided her over to the mirror so O could admire the neat rows of stripes. She brushed them with her fingertips. Their burning and itching went straight to her center.
“They’re beautiful, Sir. Thank you.”
“I’m sure you could take it harder, but you get the general idea.”
Steven wondered what was required to wring genuine pleas for mercy from those full lips. Perhaps he’d find out sometime, but it wasn’t his usual objective. He was only vicious enough to satisfy his needs and didn’t seek limits as ends in themselves. It hadn’t always been thus.
He swung her around into his arms and kissed her hard. She gave it back to him, letting a small squeal escape her nostrils when he reached down and squeezed her ass.
“You’re mean, Sir,” she panted when their mouths separated.
“You noticed that.”
“But you could be meaner if it pleases you.”
There were places in Steven he rarely visited anymore, though as a younger man he’d spent a lot of time there. He sensed that was precisely the geography O wished to explore, but it would have to be his choice and he wasn’t ready to make it yet.
He took O by the wrist and led her back to the table, once again seating her on the edge. This time the cold steel felt good under her seared backside. She deliberately shifted her weight on it, ostensibly settling herself in, splayed open with her hands out of the way.
O was nice and sweaty now. Clever girl, the blush on her lips and tits might be colorfast, but her mascara was clearly meant to run and small, black rivulets trickled from the corners of her eyes. Steven knew it had been a gamble, or possibly a presentment. Not all men liked criers. As it happened, he did.
“You do mess up nicely,” he said, putting his hand to her wet face. O suddenly broke form, grabbed his wrist and held it tight, squeezing out a few more black droplets between her shuttered lids. But she smiled at the same time. Steven stroked her face gently for a moment and then ordered her back into position.
Undoing the tasseled belt of his robe, he shrugged it off, catching it neatly over one arm as it fell and laying it next to O’s things on the couch. Turning back, he allowed her the privilege of a good, long look.
In addition to his most obvious landmark, Steven had other striking terrain features – a spectacular red irezumi dragon, surrounded by red and yellow flames and bright blue waves, covered his entire left shoulder, winding down his arm just to the stopping point of a short-sleeve shirt. He noticed her studying it.
“Gift from a Japanese client for whom I did a favor.”
“Beautiful,” O said. She didn’t have a thing for ink, had come to think of it as a fashion cliché that couldn’t be donated to The Salvation Army. But Steven’s seemed to fit him perfectly like everything he wore. Not far from it, on his other shoulder, was something she really didn’t expect to see, a deep, perfectly round scar she was pretty sure she recognized. Daringly, she reached out and touched it with a fingertip.
“Not so beautiful.”
“It was a 9mm, through-and-through. Gift from a less satisfied client.”
He dipped his shoulder to show her the exit wound in back.
“And here I’d assumed it was from an ex-wife.”
“She and I parted on better terms. Anyway, it didn’t break any bones or hit anything vital.”
“That was lucky.”
“If I was lucky I wouldn’t have gotten shot. Now sit up straight.” She did it gravely, setting her shoulders and properly lowering her gaze to Steven’s velvet slippers, taking just a beat to see him through the viewfinder. For all the evident mileage, Steven had the battered perfection of an artifact from a distant era, all muscle and sinew, solid as marble. The idea was a little absurd but the frisson was real.
O was on a blind date in ancient Crete without a ball of string to find her way back out of the labyrinth where Ray had offered her as tribute. What if she couldn’t? What if this was the date that lasted forever? O didn’t believe in forever and reality intruded with a sharp rap to the side of her left breast.
Just as he had from behind, Steven applied the crop with unerring aim, planting bright red blooms around O’s aureoles before giving her hard, downward slaps across their heavily ornamented tips. Whipping over piercings was tricky, but Steven had much practice at smacking the upper surfaces without catching the rings.
O couldn’t stay silent under his precision hammering of these tender regions. She tried not to squirm. Throwing his aim off would make things worse. She did gasp, whine, whimper and cry out. Now Steven was breathing hard and the pulsing further below was unmistakable. The more he hurt her, the more he enjoyed himself.
Moving to each side, Steven laddered a row of vermilion splotches down her torso, stretched long as she arched back to absorb each impact fully. The leather bit deeper each time. Few men seemed to understand the erogenous potential of a woman’s belly. O loved being whipped there, or caned, or flogged, or lashed. She loved the rippling vibration through her ovaries that seemed to sink down straight through her liquid interior. Struck abruptly across the cheek with the crop, she let her head swing with the momentum, slowly coming around to look him in the eyes. She wanted him to see how wet she was there as well as elsewhere. Nothing opened the taps quite like a stinging smack in the face.
Steven wasn’t surprised. O’s signals were polished but not subtle, much like his moves. Finely tuned alarms began to wail softly in the back of his mind. He wasn’t in a listening mood.
Coming forward, he pushed her over, ordering her to lift her legs wide. O did it, knowing where he’d concentrate next, starting with her smooth thighs and working up to the place where the whip would sting best. Quick and just hard enough, the slapping of the crop’s flap made O’s legs quiver. Some penetration would be lovely now. Even a passing spike of guilt for Ray, a perfectly satisfying demon lover in his own way, couldn’t distract her from the hunger this hard man inspired.
Tears flowed freely now, running in rivulets off her cheeks, pooling on the table. He grinned down at her affectionately.
“I’ll bet you’re eager to show me your appreciation, aren’t you?”
“Any way you like, Sir.”
“Good then,” he said with crisp cheer.
Slipping his hands beneath O’s perspiring back, Steven easily slid her to the far side of the table so her head fell off the edge, affording her a brief, inverted look at the night skyline through the windows before his bulk blocked her vision. That big, hard shaft hovered over her face, which she lifted to run the point of her tongue along the underside. Nice and smooth. She could have licked it like ice cream all night, but that wasn’t the plan.
“Open,” Steven ordered brusquely.
O’s parted lips fell completely wide as he stretched her arms out by the wrists and held them down on the table. Slowly, Steven slid his cock into her wet mouth. This was a challenging test and he knew it. If he felt her teeth, he’d let her know, but he didn’t. Instead, he saw the slight swelling under her delicate collar, heard her wheezing breath through her nostrils, watched her belly heave when she finally started to cough and choke. But she let it happen, keeping her head still while struggling for air. O even kept her legs open to afford him the best view.
Steven withdrew just as slowly, spilling thick spit down O’s face. After all, she had said she didn’t mind getting messy. He let her demonstrate her well-schooled lips by not pulling out completely. He had yet to meet a submissive woman who didn’t take pride in what she could do with her mouth. O definitely had bragging rights in that department, but he would indulge her vanity only so far. For Steven, mastery was the subtle balancing of what was desired and what was required.
Again, he went to the choke point. Again, O’s breasts rose and fell as she did her best to breathe around him, but ultimately the coughing and gasping racked her small body once more. Steven sped up, giving her just enough time to suck in some air before packing her face each time. His hands found her thick nipple rings and tugged upward, but O stayed flat on her back. This one had her pride. Was it about impressing Steven or not disappointing Ray? She knew he would hear all about this.
It was neither. O would have preferred to be on her knees, demonstrating the talents she’d cultivated with such extensive practice, but Steven chose to use her this way instead and that was all that mattered. In most men to whom she had submitted there was always an anxiety she could feel. They were afraid of hurting her, afraid of breaking her. They didn’t realize that, despite her appearance, she despised being treated as a china doll.
Watching the huge muscles tense in Steven’s legs when he rocked in and out of her mouth, O realized that by treating her with such brutal selfishness he was showing her the respect she had been missing. Suddenly aware her hands were free while he mauled her breasts, she daringly reached behind him and took hold, forcing him in even deeper, deliberately gagging on his invading hardness. This was so wrong and she was so down for it.
O needn’t have worried about Steven. He’d long understood that women were not fragile. Nor were their tastes particularly refined. While the appearance of fragility might attract men, too often it brought out instincts opposite those that appearance was meant to inspire. Why affect vulnerability if not to encourage violation?
The grip of her small hands and the rocking of her head even as she struggled for every breath might conclude the proceedings more abruptly than planned.
The first person a master must master is himself. Summoning all his willpower, he slid free of her hungry lips and squatted down to face her.
“You’re entirely too good at that,” he said. “It could be dangerously habit forming.” He took her by the hair and kissed her, oblivious to the rivers of saliva contributing to the further ruin of her makeup. She kissed him back ravenously, and then shook loose, wet hair flying.
“Please, Sir,” O panted. “Please, girl needs fucking so badly.”
“I think you’ve earned it.”
Steven stood up straight, his wet lance gleaming in the lamplight from above, and went back to the other side of the table. He pulled O to him by the ankles quite roughly, sat her up, encircling her small shoulders with his big arm, and stepped in, carefully guiding the thick head fisted up in his hand to where O’s naughty opening waited eagerly. Steven took possession in his usual, unhurried way, letting her feel every inch go in, one by one, holding her upright and impaled as if she were weightless. He felt the heat pouring off her, the need clasping at him in her depths. Usually, even in these moments, some part of Steven always looked on from a distance – thinking, remembering, comparing, and engineering the next move. At the moment O could have eaten his head like a female mantis and he might not have noticed.
Fully settled in, he flattened his free hand to the small of her back and moved inside her in lazy circles, sliding in and out with agonizing slowness, savoring the physical connection each time. Having extracted O’s tears, now he wanted something else.
She gave it with her languid mouth, her nuzzling of his neck, her hands sliding up and down his broad back. As much as he could be hard, she could be soft, pressing her stinging breasts against his iron ribcage, swinging her hips to match his movements, raising and lowering ever so slightly, seeking the sensation of being shafted deep with each in-stroke.
O’s breathing grew hard and husky and her legs wrapped around his middle, respectfully urging him to do what she so needed, but he held her up a long time, moving in and out in those maddeningly extended rotations. She tried to stake herself against him harder, but the edge of the table didn’t give her much leverage. She could only fuck him back with aching core muscles.
Not utterly indifferent to O’s plight, Steven tucked himself under, slamming into her from below, tilting her forward all the way onto him repeatedly. It was without doubt the deepest O had ever been fucked. The friction of Steven’s pubic bone against her recently mistreated clit compelled her back toward the precipice.
“Okay, dirty girl, back down you go.”
This time he lowered her to the table more gently, never slipping out of her for an instant. Settling her hips just so, he lifted her legs and placed them over his tattooed shoulder, crossing her black-clad ankles and resting them on his collarbone. He looked over at the red-soled shoes and grinned.
“Isn’t that pretty?”
He kissed her ankles, rubbed his face against them, as he swayed into her depths.
Held down to the table with one hand gripping her neck and the other working deviously at the critical junction between her captive thighs, O had little resistance to Steven’s now-relentless pounding.
Babbling out a desperate plea for release she sat up suddenly, throwing her arms around him and sobbing into his nearly hairless torso. Steven stroked her head, bending down to kiss the top of her skull as he held her close.
“Good girl,” he whispered in her ear. “My turn now.”
With that, he laid her back down carefully. O shook like a wet kitten. She was covered in sweat, suddenly aware that she must reek from the exertion. One eyelash was starting to come off and black streaks trailed down toward her chin. Neither of them cared about any of it
Steven rolled her onto one side, tucking her legs under her so her heels hung off the table. It wasn’t a comfortable position, but she didn’t care about that.
Grabbing the far edge, O impaled herself on him with all her considerable strength. Holding her by hip and ankle, he worked her back and forth, enjoying the graceful S-curve of her body as she lay on her side. Hardly moving himself, he pistoned her against him harder and faster, his strong hands tightening around her hip bone and leg, adjusting her until the angle, the friction, were just right.
Instead of the killing thrust O expected, he drew almost all the way out at the last minute and slowly slid back in, roaring like a beast, taking his release by the inch. O could feel the hot spurts and convulsive shudders all through her from the inside out. It went on a long, long time and when it was over Steven made no move to disengage. Flipping O onto her back, he leaned down and let the weight of his upper body lie over her.
The room was so quiet now, just the sounds of breathing gradually growing softer and more even. Eventually, Steven stood up, placing a hand over O to keep her insides warm while he slowly extracted himself, wet and dripping.
“You’re very good at that,” he said with jovial affection. It didn’t take Steven long to regain his composure, ever.
“You did most of the work … Sir.”
“I’m immune to flattery. “
Steven deftly slipped off O’s pumps, standing them neatly on the table, offered her his hands to help her up. Normally preferring the highest heels possible, at this moment she was quite glad to be flat-footed, led over to the couch. Steven fell back into it, pulling O onto his lap.
“I’m forced to admit it. For once in his life, Ray was right about something.
About the Author:
Ernest Greene has been the Executive Editor of Hustler’s flagship BDSM magazine Taboo since 1999 and of Taboo Illustrated since . He has performed in, written, produced, or directed over 500 adult titles, including the Nina Hartley’s Guide series, starring his wife and producing partner, noted porn star and sex educator Nina Hartley. Master of O may be purchased here.
About the Illustrator:
Fernando is a self-taught illustrator inspired by American comic books and European fetish art. One of the preeminent creators of graphic novels in the explicit BDSM genre, his work includes the Cheerleaders series, Confiscated Twins, Dark Vengeance, and many more.