Friday, June 1, 2012

62 RE-PETE'S


~Chapter 62~
RE-PETE’S

HE
The taxi ride seems to take forever, though traffic is light and the weather is clear. Perhaps it is simply a reflection of how desperate we both are to get back home. I'm first to produce my key, and Isabella rushes to the fridge with the leftovers, acknowledging that once we get started, we're not going to be responsible for anything other than each other's pleasure.
"I believe there was a promise of celebration mentioned earlier?" I remind her superfluously, whipping my tie through the collar and snapping the end purposefully in the air between us.
Isabella appears to be well over last night's episode of sub drop, and I feel fully confident that she can handle—and most likely craves—something on the rougher side tonight. And the way she's regarding me right now is firing me up even further than the pent-up excitement of the day's myriad successes.
My hands attend to my shirt buttons, and as I ply them open, one at a time, I tip my chin to Isabella with silent but highly effective instruction to do the same. Swiftly.
My hungry eyes devour her as she peels back her blouse, and her fingers move to the front clasp of her bra, but they come to a screeching halt as I shrug my shirt over my shoulders.
"Where'd that come from?" she asks, looking every bit the deer in the headlights.
I regard my white undershirt with new respect, having never really considered the sleeveless tank to be an asset beyond camouflaging the chest hairs that detract otherwise from the crispness of a dress shirt. But from the looks of things, Isabella has quite the response.
I can't help but tease, "My underwear drawer. Why? You have a thing for these, too?"
"I guess I do now."
"Then perhaps," I muse, stepping closer and "helping" her with her bra, "I should leave it on while I ravish you tonight."
I smirk at her response and bend to put my mouth onto her bared breast, my hands moving to unbuckle my belt. I slide the leather through the belt loops with an intimidating whoosh and quickly discard my pants. Isabella furiously tugs at her skirt zipper, and once she finds success, I step back to regard her in just her pantyhose while she takes in my dress white silks.
So much for making it to the bed.
"Lie down." I point to the couch between us and she rushes into place. I slide my boxers off leaving on the shirt as promised.
I drop one knee next to her on the cushion and grasp the waistband of her stockings. Despite our growing desperation, there's no need to rip her nylons, and I pull them gingerly over her hips.
And that's the last of Gentle Ed for the time being.
Gripping her thighs, I lift and spread apart her legs, baring her opening to me and me alone. There's a shadow of short lighter-brown hair growing in where I've forbidden shaving and I rest her left leg along the back of the couch to experience the contrast of the bristly hair and her smooth, silky skin. She moans loudly as I skim over her sensitive spot, first in passing with the pads of my fingers and then in earnest with the heel of my hand. Positioning myself to move inside her, I lean forward and enter her slippery passage.
She's so ready for me, as I am for her.
I bring my thumb to her clit and rub lightly but persistently, around and around, while thrusting and pounding deep inside, pressing her ankle toward her head, creating the tension in her muscles that will magnify her pleasure.
In this position, with the lights of the tireless city breaking through the windows, we can see each other perfectly. Her hips lift to meet each thrust, and her eyes are narrowed, her forehead furrowed, her mouth dropped open and serious, every muscle engaged and transmitting one wish as clear as day: Please.
She reaches out and captures a fistful of my undershirt, drawing me closer and pleading for more.
I bend forward and take her nipple between my teeth. Isabella groans and wraps her free arm behind my neck. We become one organism, inching up and then sliding back down along the furniture, pumping, rubbing, biting, begging, grunting, louder and louder, until finally, our crescendo breaks and we're panting breaths and loving caresses.
she
I reach out from under Edward's arm to silence my alarm and slide reluctantly away from his warm embrace. Hump Day, I giggle to myself. Otherwise known as “every day” with Edward Cullen. As I make my way across the hall in the shortest walk of shame ever, my eye is caught by the trail of clothing strewn on the floor near the couch.
I tiptoe down the hallway and gather in all the discarded pieces, separating out the dry cleaning from the laundry and tossing the latter into the guest room hamper. I can't resist the urge to peek into the basket and take pleasure in seeing our commingled dirties, and when I do, it's his wife beater sitting on top that makes me smile. I take a quick check to make sure I'm unobserved before dipping my fingers into the hamper and fishing out the garment that's been driving me crazy ever since seeing it last night. Of course, it loses some of its luster without Edward's chest to fill it out and his shoulders to hold it up, but when I bring it to my cheek and breathe in his scent, I know I have a new obsession.
Weird. I never cared much for these before, probably because I'd seen my father once too many wandering to the laundry room looking for a shirt, and maybe I've always associated it with him. But like so many other things that used to be ordinary, when Edward is added to the equation, there's just no such thing as ordinary any more.
Passing my laptop on the way to the shower, I scroll through my notifications, pleased to see that I've gotten two comments on my recent sub journal post. Just a quick peek, I promise myself, leaning over the chair so as not to be tempted to stay too long.

The first message is from Kitkat. I ready myself for something out of the ordinary, and I'm not disappointed.
[Comment on your Journal] Entry 5: On the Floor
princess -Did you feel like a dog, laying at the foot of your Master's bed? We know how you feel about the leash, but the cold, hard bite of the floor is something altogether different, huh?
I think I would have bit the bullet and whined a little, because if my Master was going to treat me like his rambunctious puppy...I would play the part. But you are much better trained than yours truly.
And I assure you, your Master did not sleep as soundly as you would think. Even as you were thinking of waking him, he was thinking of checking on you. I do hope your next night on the floor is more comfortable. kk
With a broad grin on my face, I tap out my reply:
KK- I think you've got it wrong about Master. He admits to sleeping quite soundly. However, he assures me that the slightest effort to wake him would've been successful, which fills me with both relief and terror. It seems Woken Master is not Happy Master. *shivers* As for my training level, based on what I know of you, I'd have to agree! But then, I have the most wonderful trainer to thank for that happy circumstance. Would it surprise you to know that I can't wait for my next night on the floor, and even more so if it's NOT more comfortable? Another chance to prove my devotion and trust. Maybe next time, Master will let me please him first? Well, not mine to say. Thanks so much for your support! ~p
Forcing myself away from the computer, by way of an admittedly weird pre-Edward self-imposed delayed gratification, I head to the shower, telling myself the second comment will be my reward after I'm ready for work. I put in the extra effort of readying myself for Master tonight, carefully razing the bikini line without taking off any of the hair he's commanded I leave. I don't get it; Master's very first delighted response to seeing me bare is still wonderfully fresh in my memory, but he surely has his reasons.
I step onto the bathmat and grab my fluffy towel, luxuriating in the relief that the dinner with my folks is behind us, and a roaring success to boot. I should've known that Edward would bring out the best in my mother. And with every new opportunity to see Edward in action, the more enthralled Dad, too, is with my man, boyfriend, Master, friend. Swiftly becoming my everything.
I try to force my thoughts from jumping to tomorrow, to meeting Edward's parents for the first time for what will surely feel like an audition. I push his description of his CIA-worthy mother far from my consciousness, because otherwise, I'll go mad with anxiety.
Opening the top drawer of the desk, I pull out the familiar page of Edward's handwritten notes, the rare occasion of his script somehow transmitting an intimacy as precious as the words themselves. I don't have the proper time right now to give the words their due, so I tuck the paper carefully inside my handbag and slide the drawer closed again.

I dress efficiently and happily find I have time to open my message. It's from 'His kitten'—my real live genuine article submissive online friend. Hoping for insight and sisterhood, I eagerly click open her message.
[Comment on your Journal] Entry 5: On the Floor
yp, Hello little love. It sounds like it was kinda rough the other night. The idea of being on the floor at His feet while we slept used to bother me. But just like you realized before you 'almost' woke Him up...lol, I did as well, was that I could do better for Him. After all that is what we always want for our Master.
Your Master seems to be like mine in the torture arena. It is kinda mean to get you all worked up and then leave you that way while getting His own release. I think the worst part is that I didn't get to do that for Him. I can handle not getting my release, but to not be able to be the one to give Him His release is just hard at times.
But the wakeup call is usually totally worth it. I believe that you handled it very well. Remembering to just revel in my submission always helps bring me calm so I hope that it helps you as well. I know in time you will LOVE to sleep bound at His feet and find sleep much easier as well. ~Always, His kitten (SKerbo)
SK- First off, Master sends his love! (That was after the first comment you wrote me.) Yes, I agree about wanting to do better for Master, and I hope I will achieve that tonight. Hmm, you say you can handle not getting your own release. I know my diabolical Master has plans for denial in my future, but I fear I won't be quite able to manage that as altruistically as I'd like to believe.
Master praised me for finding my solution in the submission, so I suppose I did something right after a long rough night, but honestly, this wasn't my finest hour. We push on, try harder, and above all, trust with everything we have. Thank you so much for your support. It means the world. ~p
HE
Isabella is pensive in the car, and I run through the litany of possibilities.
Lingering disappointment after last night with her folks. I'd certainly left with a warm glow of acceptance and encouragement, but then again, these weren't my parents. Maybe she picked up a vibe that I missed somehow.
Nerves over meeting my parents tomorrow. Have I forced this meeting too quickly? Have I scared her about my mother's uncanny ability to know the unknowable? Have I given her any reason to believe my parents will have anything but open arms for her?
Our scene tonight. This gets my vote. She's apprehensive after feeling as though she failed me last time. Whatever happens tonight, Isabella must understand that I'm wildly pleased with her; that her submission is absolutely perfect, even in its imperfection.
I'm not about to separate from her without exploring this, especially since we're scening tonight; in fact, if her schedule allows, I'd like to begin with lunch. Her hands are covered in gloves, and I need skin-to-skin contact. I opt instead for trailing a finger down the side of her face and looping her hair behind her ear.
"You're doing some heavy thinking over there."
She turns to me and I can sense the cogs turning—to share or not to share? She sighs and thankfully opens up. "I don't know if you've been watching my journal responses?"
Oh shit, no. Sir Douche is bothering her again? Or is it someone new? What kind of Master am I not to have been monitoring that more closely? Busy is no damn excuse, and neither is telling myself she'd let me know if something was wrong. Isabella's yellow caution light doesn't come on soon enough for my tastes yet, which requires extra vigilance on my part. We'll get there, but in the meantime, it's on me.
"I haven't looked recently. Please tell me that asshat isn't back." My right hand tenses and my fingers curl uselessly against the seat.
"No, nothing like that. This is gonna sound stupid," she says with an apologetic shake of her head.
I cup her cheek and cause her to look at me. "Please?" I don't need to tell her if it's bothering her, it's bothering me.
"TwinkleToes stopped writing to me."
"Oh. That stinks."
"Yeah. I guess I wasn't…I don't know, authentic enough for her?"
I slide my arm behind her shoulders and pull her to me, the embrace frustratingly ineffective through heavy winter layers. "Hey, you're real. I'm sorry she left you, but don't try to project why."
She looks up, and I hate the hurt I see in her eyes.
"Sometimes, when one door closes, another opens. Look at your new sub friend, His kitten. There's someone you can really relate to."
Isabella brightens. "Yes, I feel like I could ask her anything."
"And the other one, kitkat…hey, what is it with all these felines, anyway?"
She giggles. "Yes, that one is always entertaining." Heavy sigh. "I just feel as though I lost something, you know?"
There's a selfish piece of me that wants to be her everything, but I understand what she's seeking. I reflect on my relationship with Marcus, our long-standing friendship and my ease with asking him for advice over the years. She, too, deserves and seems to yearn for a mentor.
"I get it. Listen, I can do some asking around, find you someone reliable and safe."
"Really? I mean, is that okay?"
"Of course. I want you to get whatever support you feel you need." Okay, the thought is mildly terrifying, letting go of the Black Velvet piece and allowing someone else to step into our relationship. This must be how a parent feels when a child walks into the psychologist's office, the inevitable, "It all started when my mother…" and other dirty laundry certain to be aired.
"Hmm, so a real person, on purpose, not just someone random who happens upon my journal?"
Now, I can see that she's nervous, too.
"Sweetheart, the arrangement can be whatever you want it to be. Let's not get ahead of ourselves with this, okay? We've both got a lot going on right now."
She sighs again and settles into my chest. "Thank you."
"Always. So…do you have an hour free for lunch today? Your Master is eager to get started."
She tips her eyes up and her expression shifts, probably to match my own. "Yes, Master," she whispers, then hides her face in my coat.
Me, too, princess, I answer without speaking, squeezing her tighter and closing my eyes to the outside world.
she
We could've easily met in the lobby, walked here together, arrived arm in arm or hand in hand. But Master's diabolical. I know this, and yet, his schemes never fail to excite me.
"I'll arrive at 1. I want you and the pizza waiting for me at the table when I do. If at all possible, get our table."
Our table. The fateful lunch where I almost blew it all by pushing too hard for his secrets. I hover shamelessly at the tiny window table for two while the previous couple finishes up, finally even going so far as to offer to dispose of their trash for them. Shooting each other bewildered and amused expressions, they mercifully step it up and remove themselves from the path of Tornado Isabella. Or should I say, Sub-a-bella?
While I'm waiting, I flatten the page with my vows on the tiny round table. I've reread these numerous times since Montauk, but sometimes words don't sink in properly until there's an experience to match with them. Halfway down is the one that causes me an anxious prickle:
I will be responsive to my Master, I will not try to hide what my mind and body are feeling. I will accept the responsibility of discovering what pleases my Master, and will do my best to fulfill Your wishes and desires.
Of course, the first part reminds me of my recent failing. But what of the second half? What have I actually done to discover what pleases him? Sure, I know he loves chocolate chip cookies and sweet potato fries and he goes nuts when I press that ridge while I've got him in my mouth…but have I done enough to learn what his wishes and desires are, beyond simply obeying what he asks for? I gingerly fold the paper and slide it back into my purse and check my watch for the fifth time.
It's five minutes 'til one with an ETA of two minutes on the pizza, and Edward is never, ever late. A shudder runs through me as I arrange the drinks and napkins and nervously fiddle with the number tent on the table, praying that the pie will be ready when promised.
Come on, come on, I beam urgently to the stout man behind the stainless steel ledge, artfully twirling dough on his fingertips as if the show were more important than getting Master's pizza out here pronto.
Why did you cut it so damn close? I chastise myself, my heart beating wildly. How is your new resolve to be perfect for Master working out so far?
My eyes resume their nervous circuit—watch, window, kitchen—when I catch the familiar shock of reddish-brown hair atop the unmistakable frame of my Master approaching. If there were any doubt at this distance, which there isn't, his black leather coat is the clincher. Excitement and dread ratchet up to a nearly unbearable tension as his steps quickly approach, and still no pizza. His hands are buried deep in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched up against the cold, his eyes cast downward to the sidewalk.
I recall how my nerves wreaked havoc last time I waited for him right here, our liaison a dangerous attraction I already knew I could never resist. This time, it's different. Having shared so much in such a short span of time, things so intimate I still blush to think of them, I am possibly even more anxious for his arrival. He's mine, I'm his, and no matter what happens, we'll be together after lunch is over. Question is, will Master be tanning my hide tonight for my failure to heed his command?
His eyes lift, meeting mine through the window, and his brilliant smile flashes quickly but fades in the next moment as he discovers I've let him down. My heart flies to my throat and my stomach flips over; I haven't disappointed him this way since I touched myself in the limo and had to admit my transgression. Master places his palm against the door as I hear, "Twenty-nine?" and my savior slides the pizza onto the table just under the gun. Master turns to the table and is shocked to see the hot pizza waiting for him. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he chuckles and says, "Don't think I don't know this wasn't here two seconds ago."
We're in that weird in-between moment that feels both in-scene and not, and I wait for a cue. As usual, he takes full command of the situation. "Stand up, Isabella."
I rise quickly.
"Give me your right wrist."
As soon as I offer my wrist, he asks, "Are you ready? Answer with a whisper loud enough for only me to hear, and call me 'Master.'"
Excitement zipping through me to use the word in public, I lean in and whisper, "Yes, Master."
He pulls his hand from the coat pocket and produces my green scarf. His lips tip upward at the corners as he ties an efficient knot. "Take off my coat for me, please."
Without regard for how this might look, I immediately comply, unzipping his coat, sliding the soft leather over his shoulders, and draping it behind his chair. He pulls the other metal chair around the table so it's touching his and says simply, "Sit."
I sit and I wait. "Thank you for lunch, Isabella. I'm ready for my first piece."
I pull the first steaming slice from the circle and set it before him on the paper plate. He looks at me expectantly and opens his mouth. Holy shit! I'm to hand-feed him his lunch right here?
I lift the slice to my mouth first and blow on it so as not to burn him with the hot cheese. Master smiles at the gesture and waits patiently until I bring the tip of the triangle to his mouth. He takes a healthy bite. I wait.
"Napkin." I tap his mouth, swiping away the shiny residue.
"Drink." Thank goodness there's a straw in the tall glass of Diet Coke; otherwise I'd fear spilling it down his front, and I can't even imagine the consequences of such a bumble.
"More pizza, please. . . napkin. . . Coke."
HE
"Hungry?" I ask her, after I've finished my second slice.
"Yes, Master," she whispers.
"Okay, you can take yourself a slice now and you may have one bite."
She is quick to thank me and even quicker to take a bite, poor thing. "My turn again," I inform her, and she pulls yet another slice in my direction without complaint. I could most definitely get used to this treatment. It's partially her own fault for putting in my mind the idea of having a house wench worthy of the Dark Prince.
"Master?" she says softly.
"Yes?"
"Is there anything else you desire?" Shit! I feel like I'm in an episode of I Dream of Jeannie. I might just have to get Isabella a genie costume, come to think of it. Or would it be a Renaissance serving wench costume with a tight bustier and full skirt? A wispy number à la Roissy, with sex exposed? The fantasies swirl merrily in my head.
"I have everything I need for now, thank you."
"Okay."
Is that disappointment on her sweet face? What is up with this girl lately? I feel strangely unable to read her today.
"What am I missing here, princess?"
She looks down and away. Interesting, but unacceptable.
"Look at me, please."
She turns back instantly, though I can tell she's uncomfortable doing so. "What's this about my desires?" I ask.
"Our vows," she answers mysteriously.
"Talk to me."
She cringes momentarily in that cute way she has of just hating the talking thing, but eventually presses forward. "I promised to learn your wishes and desires, and do my best to fulfill them. I'm not sure I've done a very good job of that."
"Ah, okay. I'm with you now." She's been reviewing our vows. Her dedication thrills and warms me.
She smiles shyly, and I'm struck once again by how amazing and wonderful it is that she can still feel shy when we talk. "Okay, first, let me reassure you in no uncertain terms that you have fulfilled my every desire beautifully and to my utter satisfaction. And let me also be clear that we're not nearly done exploring the wide world of kink together."
She drops her face into my shirt and mumbles something about being mortified. I cup her chin gently and lift her face to mine. "Sweetheart, if you're asking me to tell you specifically how to ring my bell, I'd be more than willing to give you some detailed guidance later on. Would that make you happy?"
"Yes, Master. So happy," she whispers.
I bend to capture her lips, this beautiful, generous creature who lives to please me.
"Well, good, because that fits in perfectly with what I already had planned for you tonight. And speaking of desire…"
I take her hand into my lap and press it against the hardened bulge straining against my zipper. "Look what you made me do, princess."
Her eyes widen and she smiles proudly.
"I need some more pizza."
"Yes, Master," she says, attempting to liberate her hand from my crotch.
"Unh uh," I respond. "Use the other hand. This one is staying right here."
"Yes, Master," she repeats quietly, a flush rising on her cheeks.
"Your wish is my command, Master," I direct her while she pulls the next slice down for me.
I smile when I notice the heavy gulping swallow she takes, just before repeating the phrase. "Your wish is my command, Master."
"See? Fulfilling my wishes, as discussed. Feel better?"
"Yes, Master."
"And by 'feel better,’ what I mean is, did you just mess your panties for me?"

She opens her mouth to speak, blinks her eyes several times, and clears her throat. "Yes, Master."

7 comments:

  1. lol i could not and would not ever do that for anyone other than a baby that couldn't feed itself hahahaha

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  2. He used the scarf on her wrist instead of her bracelet? Interesting. I wonder why -- especially since I'd think that scarf would quite get in her way as she tries to finish out her work day; I can't imagine trying to type (or write, actually) with a long-azz scarf dangling from my wrist.

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    1. He used the scarf to invoke the earlier scene. It was a poetic gesture from our romantic dom. The scarf is square, so not enormous, but yes, it absolutely should intrude on her work day afterwards. That's a big part of its effectiveness. Thank you for your thoughtful (and challenging!) comments! Realism is always a challenge when writing something so fanciful, but it is what I strive for, so I'm happy you're taking things seriously.

      Thanks for your support and interest in the story.

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  3. can't get enough of their fabulous coupling, whether as BF and GF or as Master and sub. How's this going to work for the rest of the day at work after they get back from lunch? Will she stay in sub mode? How about when they meet his parents? That might be very difficult.....

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    1. Oooh, that would be weird and probably bad!

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