Thud! Everything drops at once—my heart, my stomach, my jaw—and the back of my head smacks forcefully against the uncomfortably vertical seat back. I might die right here. They’ll have to send an ambulance out to the tarmac, slide me onto the gurney, pronounce me DOA at Sinai…
How in the name of Our Holy Mother of Submission am I not going to speak to him after four days apart? And what could he possibly have planned for me at the Four Seasons?
Deep breath, Bella. Yours is not to question why. Yours is but to do or…yeah there’s that death thing again. My fingers have flown to my bracelet, and I run my thumb over the field of black sapphires. My Black Velvet.
“Hey! You goin’?”
“Huh? Wha? Oh, sorry,” I mumble to the restless Giants fan trapped by the window and now threatening to climb over me. He’d do it, too. You do not want to anger a Giants fan.
I scramble from my seat, remembering just in time to retrieve my suitcase from the overhead compartment. I hastily bid goodbye to my co-workers as they follow the crowd to the luggage carousel. Slipping into a seat at the gate, I log on as quickly as I’m able and copy and paste my sub journal entry into my blog. I’m thrilled to see some new activity, lots of new people commenting on past entries. I don’t have time to look right now, another tasty morsel to save for later, when Master decides he’s through with me for the night.
I check my watch and make a snap decision not to proofread my HEA chapter yet again before sending it to Master. I’m not posting this one now, if ever, and I highly doubt Master will be reading for grammar. No, he’ll be rating me on the “roughness factor” and I’m pretty sure my little scene will earn high marks. Dirty girl, chides my inner prude, but I quickly brush her off and wrap myself in my submissive cloak. There’s no time for misgivings; I have my orders.
TO: Edward Cullen
FROM: Isabella Swan
DATE: Thursday, Jan. 19, 2012
SUBJECT: HEA outtake
I hope you enjoy the HEA outtake. You asked me the other day whether I know what will happen before I start writing. Usually, yes. This time, not so much. I will tell you I heard your voice emanating from my Dark Prince loud and clear, and that was pure joy. Should I mention my little princess has officially gone way out of my comfort zone?
Can’t wait to see you, Master. I’m off to find Domenic and beg him to run every red light.
I could easily walk the fifteen blocks to the hotel, but I’d much rather spend the time seated in a taxi so I can read Isabella’s submissions without tripping over my own feet or the crush of liberated clock-punchers sloshing through the sullied afternoon snowfall. I’m also not entirely sure it’s safe to be trudging up Park Avenue with the raging hard-on I am sure her chapter will incite. As if I needed more of an excuse to be rock solid than my plans for her long-anticipated homecoming.
Oh dear sweet subbie, I grin back at her journal salutation. Yes, my darling, you will always have yourself on a tighter tether than even Master can conjure for you. And yes, to the insights about our online explorations hopefully adding extra inches to that short line you allow yourself. Not simply the anonymity, but the assurance provided by the evidence that so many others are unafraid of getting their kink on. “Normalcy” is such a relative term, and in the end, utterly meaningless if not completely undesirable. But this is not a lesson to be taught; it is rather an illumination one experiences, having been led down an extremely careful path by a skilled Master.
For a moment, I feel unworthy of the tremendous yoke across my shoulders. I have to reassure myself that I am well equipped to handle this responsibility, that I can lead my submissive at the proper loving yet firm pace, that she will reach this point when it’s right for her. That her “good girl” persona will eventually find no reason to harshly judge the submissive’s needs. For now, I gratefully accept the contradiction and the hypocrisy as part and parcel to the process of our journey together. I don’t love that she suffers this way, but I will use the easily-inspired shame to both of our advantages while she still carries a heavy burden.
For once, the princess has overestimated Master’s self-centeredness. The audience participation does little for me, especially with the uncertainty present in a chat room. In my past experience, the live BDSM clubs can usually be counted on to provide a more sophisticated clientele, but there is no way I’d ever share Isabella with a random stranger in the flesh, not her flesh or anyone else’s. Besides, the words themselves are exciting enough, and the chat platform allows Isabella to experience other styles in a perfectly measured environment. If nothing else, it feeds her fantasy life to watch other doms and subs operate. Maybe we’ll go back one night and just watch together, with Master providing his own embellishments on our side of the screen, of course. Or maybe she’ll eventually ask to be dom’d by one of the other men in the room…or who knows? Possibly a woman. Perhaps she’d like to invite another sub in to play with us? Thinking back to her checklist, I do remember a significant ambivalence in that category, but again, the relative safety of online play allows for greater range across the board. Especially, as my insightful girl has noted, in the realm of pain.
Jesus, my cock is crying out from the confines of my boxers and I settle him in sideways so he can lay comfortably in my lap while I close out of her journal and open the email sent at 4:33. Excellent, her plane landed on schedule and Domenic should have no trouble delivering her to me right on time.
Her message is another warning volley lobbed from the SS Isabella. I’m pleased that she can both write the fantasy and tell me that she doesn’t want this. I need to let her know in no uncertain terms that I have no intention of ever sharing her, and I have two days in which to accomplish this before we meet Marcus on Saturday.
My body buzzes with sweet anticipation, and I find, oddly, that I’m looking forward to our after-care and processing almost as much as the scene. Edward Cullen, what is happening to you?
My blackberry answers the unspoken question. “Yours – I.” End of story.
Speaking of stories, oh my sweet, sweet subbie has let her twisty side out to play today! Perhaps she just needed a little nudge from her purely selfless Master (cough, cough) to put it down on paper, so to speak. If the Dark Prince told her this story in my voice, she’s certainly attributing to him a sternness I’ve never exhibited. She has incorporated the dinner slave footage with our chat scene and applied it to her medieval-slash-fairy tale setting. The spectacular result has princess naked-wench serving his nefarious, drunken cronies mugs of ale in his parlor, posing for them while they maul her, and receiving corporal punishment for inevitable spills. And the kicker—the punishment is handed out by the others, all with the Dark Prince’s blessing. There’s a spectacular scene at the end of the piece where she’s led on her knees through a line of waiting cocks, sucking each man off to completion while being harshly paddled by the others.
I catch the cabbie’s eyes in the rear view, and he looks like a guy struggling to remember his CPR training. I realize I’ve been moaning out loud like a sick cow for the last five minutes. My lips are dry and I’m beyond painfully hard. I swallow and my tongue locates the last drop of moisture. “Fine,” I croak.
He holds my gaze another beat, not sure if he can trust me to refrain from cardiac arrest. Not an easy feat as I read the cum shot:
My Dark Prince is, appropriately, the grand finale, and once I take him into my mouth, I forget everything that came before.
“Harder,” he directs both me and his crusty friends. Their wild drunken paddling is rougher than anything my Dark Prince has delivered, and each blow forces my nose to his belly and his cock deep into my throat. Master’s wrists are crossed behind his back as he leaves me to his friends’ menacing devices. Master’s body rocks as he absorbs the aftershocks with his sturdy hips.
“Swallow,” he commands suddenly, shooting his hot load into the back of my throat.
“Hey, pal. You’re my last fare today. Please don’t tell me I’m gonna have to fill out an hour’s wortha paperwork in the ER.”
I swallow over the gravel pile in my throat and assure him I’m fine, but my bleating isn’t raising his trust factor.
“Just sit tight, all right? ETA, two lousy minutes. Can ya handle it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”
“Maybe look out the winduh or some’m?” he begs. “Some people get motion sickness when they read in the car.”
I nod, but my eyes are drawn predictably to the tiny screen by the power of her words. Not surprisingly, my eloquent princess stuns me with her final line:
Master clutches my cheek against his body with one hand and caresses me ever so softly with his free thumb; for this proud moment, I would endure anything, I think.
“Good trip?” Domenic asks, taking my suitcase from me and stowing it safely in the trunk.
“Yes,” I answer absently. I am entirely unable to focus on anything beyond the idea of Master reading my chapter. My mental debauchery reaches new heights (lows?) every damn day, it seems, and I wonder if it’s infinite, this slide into taboo. The writing has taken on a whole new dimension since he’s been reading, and this piece in particular is for Master’s eyes only, unless I choose to post it. After all, HEA is mine.
But then, I am Master’s. Hmm, a conundrum.
“Sure has been quiet without you two this week,” Domenic states conversationally.
“What do you mean, the two of us? Did you not drive Edward?”
“No, Ma’am. He’s been walking.”
Hunh. I haven’t given it much thought, but I suppose this lifestyle has been a bit of an adjustment for him as well. I have the inescapable visual of fastening a saddle around the girth of a wild beast, but I shake it off. Surely, Edward is not “broken in” by anyone’s definition. And yet, has he not been dropping hints all week about being domesticated and whipped? Hard to reconcile with his commanding presence, but worth tucking away for later exploration, or as Master would deem it, processing.
Meanwhile, I check my watch again as we merge onto the Long Island Expressway. 5:05. I take a deep breath and exhale, my eyes forward and focused.
“In a hurry, Miss Swan?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am, Domenic. Edward isn’t a man one keeps waiting.”
“No, ma’am,” he agrees. “I can see that.”
“Domenic, don’t you think it’s about time you started calling me Bella?”
Domenic’s warm brown eyes fill the rear-view mirror, his mocha skin crinkling around the edges as he smiles. “That would be my honor, ma’am.”
“Mine, too. Now, can you get me to the Four Seasons by 5:25?”
“Say no more,” Domenic answers, shifting into Jason Statham mode, crossing three lanes of traffic and throwing me back against the seat.
I pull the seat belt across my lap, close my eyes and pray.
Apparently, the power of prayer does work; not ten minutes later, Domenic is opening my door. With a dramatic flourish of his hand, he indicates the sidewalk. “We have arrived.”
I feel like hugging him, but I fear that may be a bit outside both our comfort zones, so I settle for a hand on his forearm and a very sincere, “Thank you, Domenic.”
“Your wish is my command,” he says innocently, causing my stomach to flip just the same. “I shall deliver your suitcase to the apartment. You go on and have yourselves a lovely evening. And please give Edward my regards.”
I sweep through the revolving doors and search the lobby for the bar. My heart is pounding ridiculously hard, which I suppose is preferable to how it seems to seize up suddenly when I see Master/Edward stand to greet me from across the crowded space. I remind myself not to speak, not to let spill any of the thousands of things threatening to bubble from my mouth. I find myself fondling Master’s bracelet and I achieve my focus, walking swiftly but under control—his control to be precise. Master checks his watch, smiles and waits stock still in front of his bar stool, making me come to him, pulling me by an invisible string made of the strongest fiber known to mankind. He’s obviously arrived directly from work, white shirtsleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, leather coat and tie removed. I feel like a bit of a freak for my physical response to his presence. I am more base than Pavlov’s dogs; I am not only salivating at the mouth, but I am literally drooling into my nylons. Classy.
I have no further instructions once I’m within two feet of him, so I stop abruptly, though it goes against every instinct I possess. The two of us are mirror images, hands hanging uselessly by our sides, bodies listing slightly forward, two wound springs on the brink of spectacular uncoiling. The air between us is so charged, I’m certain we could power a small country. Master seems to be handling this almost-reunion far better than I am, but then again, he holds all the cards; he knows how this story ends, and for that matter, every chapter and verse.
“Hello, princess,” he says finally, opening his arms and stepping toward me. Pavlov’s bell sounds loud and clear, and I’m dangerously close to implosion. I wait, but I’m far from patient. When his arms finally encircle my shoulders and my back, I feel my legs buckle beneath me. I am so absolutely overcome with emotion, I’m grateful to have been commanded not to speak. He pulls me firmly against his chest and holds me securely. “Welcome home, Isabella,” he croons into my ear.
I’m a mess of tears and sniffles all over his shoulder, and I’m pretty sure this emotional wreckage is not what Master had in mind. I feel the need to apologize but I’m not allowed. Master rocks me gently, side to side, and I feel safe and unhurried and loved and desired. Definitely desired, I notice, as I start to come to my senses and feel his undeniable stiffness against my midsection.
When he finally determines I’m okay, he pulls back slowly, cupping my cheek with his graceful fingers and wiping my tears with his thumb. Combing my hair off my face, he looks all the way inside me with those infinitely deep malachite eyes, sucking the breath right out of my lungs. “I missed you so much,” he declares, just before flinching—as if in pain—and closing his lips over mine.
The first taste of her awakens every last receptor along my tongue and I’m drunk on the flavor and texture of her kisses. I’m pawing at her like a damn wild panther during mating season but I can’t seem to ease up. My hands have traveled downward, pressing her body into mine, making her feel my need. She sucks a strained breath through her nose and I realize I might actually be depriving her brain of oxygen. Reluctantly, I wrench my lips off hers and she gasps several breaths through her liberated mouth.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I got a little excited,” I chuckle, drawing off her overcoat and leading her to the bar. “Here, I ordered you a drink.”
She looks at me questioningly.
“It’s okay this time. I promise. No consequences for an alcohol-induced slip-up.”
I slide the Cosmo to her spot and lift my Diet Coke to clink. “To my sweet Isabella, coming home to me.”
She smiles mutely, shares the toast, and takes a sip of her drink.
I tip my wrist and check my Masterly watch. “Uh oh, you’re gonna have to do a little better than that. We’ve got somewhere to be.”
She sucks down the drink like a champ and sets the empty glass down on the bar.
She starts to pull on her coat, but I take it from her and say, “You won’t be needing that.”
I lead her to the elevator bank with my hand at her lower back, and once inside the car, I press the top floor. The doors open and I command, “Stay directly behind me and don’t speak to anyone.”
I walk past the entrance to the pool and turn left down a broad hallway. New age music meant to be soothing wafts from the registration desk of the spa.
“How may I help you, sir?” asks a female voice.
“Appointment for Miss Swan,” I answer.
“That would be the Brazilian wax?”
Isabella gasps behind me. I turn around and fix her with a warning glare. Her expression is a mixture of remorse, anxiety, and disbelief.
“Something you need to say, princess?” I offer quietly, allowing her a moment to get her emotions in check. She wisely shakes her head, and I turn back to the receptionist.
It’s nearly as difficult for me not to turn around and comfort her as it is for her to hear this disheartening news. But what kid ever believed a parent wielding a leather belt who promised, “This is gonna hurt me as much as it hurts you?”
“Is that Miss Swan…behind you?” the perfectly mannered, gentle-voiced, highly botoxed receptionist asks, trying her best to keep curiosity and judgment out of her voice. It helps that she works for a world-class establishment and is used to dealing with clientele from a wide variety of cultures. This can’t be all that abnormal, I muse.
“Yes,” I answer without checking. I told Isabella to stand behind me; that’s where she is.
“Okay, then…” she responds, trying to figure out the rules to our game, “she'll need to remove her clothing from the waist down, and her technician will meet her in the guest lounge area.” She slides a robe and a key across the counter. “You’re welcome to wait right out here for your…friend.”
“Thank you… Evangeline,” I answer sweetly, glancing at her name tag. “But I’ll be going in the treatment room with Miss Swan. I made the arrangements last week when I booked the appointment.”
She looks flummoxed for a moment and scans her computer screen. After several key strokes, she sputters, “Yes, sir, here it is. My apologies. Please feel free to meet Miss Swan in the lounge.”
“Thank you again.”
I grab the robe and key, walking away from the desk without addressing Isabella, who follows me silently. Once we arrive at the ladies locker room door, I turn and hand her the items. “Remove everything but your bracelet and clean yourself thoroughly before coming out. I’ll be waiting for you in the lounge.”
She nods her assent, and I watch as a full-body tremble ripples through her body. Her eyes are slightly glazed. That would be the vodka. She’ll need it.
“You may speak freely once we enter the treatment room, and address me as ‘Edward.’”
She nods, and I leave her there to find myself a comfortable seat in the lounge. The place is mostly deserted. We’re the last appointment of the day, which is no accident. I draw a cupful of ice water from a tall cooler with sliced lemons and hand it to her when she pads in from the locker room, clutching her triple-knotted robe modestly.
She accepts the cup and drinks gratefully, while I play at the bracelet beneath the cuff of her sleeve—not that she needs the not-so-subtle reminder.
“Miss Swan?” A lithe blonde woman with acres of white teeth and miles of legs tragically hidden behind light blue scrubs shows us both to the treatment room. I set our coats along the window sill while Isabella gets situated on the table, and the technician attempts to put her at ease.
“I’m Kaia and I’ll be doing your Brazilian this evening. Make yourself comfortable.” Her low murmur is practiced and soothing, but then, I’m not the one about to have my genital area ambushed—or better yet, unbushed.
I swallow my snigger and turn back to the striking sight of Kaia placing Isabella’s soles flat against the edge of the table, knees flexed, legs spread, her ass riding the edge. I step dutifully to Isabella’s side and take hold of her hand.
Kaia drapes a modesty sheet over Isabella’s knees, but I protest quickly, “She won’t be needing that.”
The technician gives me a curious look before checking with Isabella, who confirms my wishes. Kaia shrugs and tosses the sheet to the counter. “Okay, honey, just let your right leg fall open to the table.”
Isabella’s terrified eyes click to mine as she drags in a heavy breath, and I give her hand a squeeze. “How you doing, baby?”
“I hate you.” She pouts. I chuckle, lean in and steal a kiss.
“First time?” Kaia asks, testing the hot wax.
“Yes,” Isabella answers accusingly.
The blonde’s eyes move back and forth between us as she gets a sense of the dynamic—asshole boyfriend somehow convincing girl to get waxed, partially but somehow not entirely against her will. “You’re going to love how it feels. After. During…not so much,” Kaia smiles sympathetically. Isabella eyes me warily again.
Kaia lines up her muslin strips and popsicle sticks and cool compresses, rolls the stool between Isabella’s legs, and presses a firm hand against her thigh. She slides the robe up and over Isabella’s hips and well out the way, the heavy knot now sitting on her rib cage. I can easily see directly inside the gaping top and of course, I look, but the real action is down below, where the pretty girl sits between Isabella’s spread legs. Bliss. Even better, this girl is going to administer the treatment, pain giver by proxy, while I get to be the soother AND the one who reaps the benefit of the hair removal. Some days it’s really good to be the king.
Kaia looks sweet but she’s a barracuda in scrubs. No amount of baby oil or powder can soothe the searing pain of pubic hair being ripped out by its roots. I let go a new stream of curse words with each muslin strip yanked off, but my poor pussy is a hot, stinging mess and I’m about two follicles short of hysterical.
Edward is stoic, honestly not seeming to mind my using him as a verbal whipping boy. He seems genuinely disheartened by my pain, and I’m sure his hand isn’t feeling all too good at this point, considering how I’ve been crushing him for the last ten minutes.
“Front’s done,” Kaia reports brightly, pressing a cool compress over my pubic region. I’m afraid to look at the area in question for fear of seeing a blazing inferno between my legs. At least, that’s how it feels. “Okay, up on all fours.”
I roll my eyes at Edward and he does a very poor job at pretending to tamp down his amusement.
“Okay, honey,” Kaia instructs, “let’s see that porn star pose. Head down, rear up, legs spread wide.”
“Oh, your favorite position!” Edward offers, unable to contain his glee. I groan miserably and he squats near the head of the table to keep me company.
“Okay, this might sting a wee bit,” Kaia warns in spectacular understatement, yanking off the first strip of rectal growth.
I let loose a major howl of agony in his face. Tears are pouring down unchecked. If I’d begun to doubt, I now know for certain that Real Bella is no pain slut. There’s not a shred of this that is erotic for me; it’s simply what Master requires. Speaking of the guy responsible for this, I let him have it with a fresh round of colorful swear words.
“How’s that working for you so far?” Edward asks me, suddenly quite serious.
“Not so well,” I admit, adding a sore throat to my list of aching parts.
He nods knowingly. “Let’s try it my way now.” His playfulness is erased, and I understand fully that Master has just taken charge of the situation.
He clears the hair off my face, cups my chin, and sets his eyes level with mine. Speaking only loud enough for my earshot, Master murmurs, “I want you to stop fighting the pain and take it… for me. On my command, you will take a deep breath and when Brunhilda here pulls, you exhale.”
Master has clearly issued an order but there’s no mistaking the compassion in his eyes. He shuffles forward and sets my face into the open collar of his shirt, providing me with much-needed skin-to-skin contact. Cradling the back of my head against his body, he whispers, “Deep breath.”
Along with the unmistakably masculine scent I’ve been craving these past few days away from him, I inhale my Master’s strength and support.
I feel the rumble in his chest as he informs Kaia, “She’s ready now.”
“Here we go. Three…two…one,” Kaia warns, then yanks the next strip away.
Instead of the pained wail and stream of expletives, there’s a deep moan that echoes against my rib cage.
“Better?” I whisper into her hair, and she wiggles her face vertically against my chest by way of response.
Surprised that Isabella hasn’t screamed and cursed, Kaia looks up at the two of us and becomes transfixed by our connection. She nods reverently to me and snaps back to work, applying the next stripe of wax and muslin and nodding when it’s time to prepare Isabella.
“Beautifully done, princess. Here we go again. Breathe in…” I slide my fingers through her hair as I hold her securely.
As her urgent exhale warms my chest, I firm up my stance and absorb the force of the blow. I’m struck at once by the uncanny similarity to omk’s so-called ‘grand finale’, which we seem to be acting out in real time; that is, if Isabella’s mouth were about eighteen inches lower and Kaia were four drunken lords wielding a paddle!
On the heels of this rather shocking insight, I’m thrown off kilter by Isabella’s muffled, “Thank you, Edward.” Despite the increasing frequency of these unforeseen expressions of gratitude, I’m once again deeply moved.
I slip her damp, disheveled hair behind her ear and press my lips gently to the tender skin of her exposed lobe. “My pleasure, sweetheart.”
“Well, I’m all finished here,” Kaia announces brightly.
“Let me see,” I answer skeptically. Kaia is understandably a bit put off by this response, when clearly she is used to this statement being met by significant relief and not a rigorous inspection. But she’s never encountered me before.
I release Isabella’s head and cup her chin in one hand. “Be right back,” I wink. Isabella is wiped out at this point and merely drops her head to the table.
I have to be extremely careful right now; it’s not my intention to embarrass either Kaia or Isabella with my evaluation of her wax job, but I do want to make sure the job was thorough. With that in mind, I perform a thorough visual scan but I restrict my touch to the “public” areas. Kaia begins cleaning up—partially, I think, to send the clear message that she’s done, but mostly to give us some semblance of privacy. I am impressed with her empathy, and I plan to reward it generously.
With one hand resting on Isabella’s lower back, I dip my face down between her legs and momentarily get lost in the view, though I’m really only after her eyes. “Isabella, want to run your hand across your skin and make sure you don’t feel any rebel hairs hanging on for dear life?”
“If I have to,” she grumbles in a slightly drunk, thoroughly resigned manner.
“You do,” I chuckle, giving her bottom a soft love tap.
She reaches one hand between her legs and touches herself gingerly. “Wow!…so soft…oh my gosh…” Though I wish the hand were mine, I’m thoroughly enjoying her meticulous, and frankly, extremely erotic, self-examination. And it’s made worse when she reaches through her legs and takes my hand in hers, pulling me to her newly bared pubis. “Edward, you have to feel this! I’ve never been so smooth in my life! It’s incredible!”
Kaia pipes up from across the room. “Told you,” she sings merrily, unbothered by our display.
My poor, imprisoned cock is startled back to rigidity, and I’ve had just about all I can take. “Hold that thought, princess,” I say, retrieving my hand and practically racing across the room.
“Kaia, Thank you for everything, You did a fantastic job, can I take care of your tip now, can we have the room for a few minutes?” This all comes out in one garbled stream as I reach for my wallet.
She sets down the instrument she was cleaning and hands me a tube of peppermint balm. After-care, my favorite. “Here. I have a feeling she’ll like it better if you do it anyway,” she says with a grin. “And don’t worry about me, gratuities are included. Have fun, you two,” she adds.
“I insist.” Not waiting for permission, I press two twenties into her palm. After all we’ve been through here in the last hour, she knows better than to refuse me.
“Thank you. It was actually my privilege to watch the two of you together. You really worked some magic there; I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
I glance over at my sweet subbie, waiting patiently for me on all fours. “She’s spectacularly receptive,” I say, a rush of pride-filled pleasure washing over me.
“Yes, well…” Kaia replies, sweeping her eyes over all of me, “you’re quite …magnanimous.” She waves to Isabella and wishes her a speedy healing before slipping out the door.
I wash my hands thoroughly before touching Isabella, and my first pass at her bare pussy is a wispy touch with my fingertips. Isabella moans into the sheet, and that’s the moment I know for sure I’m not going to last until we get home. “So soft,” I whisper, humbled by the perfection of her skin. “Does it hurt when I touch you?”
Isabella’s body shakes with sudden laughter. “Now you’re concerned? No, Edward, that is the exact opposite of hurt.”
I squeeze the ass cheek sitting inside my other hand. “We’re alone now, you’ll call me Master now.”
“Master, that feels really fucking good. Better?” She smiles up at me playfully through her spread legs. I remind myself of my earlier promise for a consequence-free scene, and I smile right back.
“Better,” I agree, “but let’s get this cream on you so you’ll start healing.”
“How long does that take?” she whines, as if the thought were just occurring to her for the first time that she’ll be out of commission for a while.
“Depends how motivated you are to heal,” I answer, squeezing a pearl of cream into my palm and gently touching her outer areas with the salve.
Isabella hisses and squirms. “Feels like fire!”
“Hey,” I say, placing my other hand on her back. “Still yourself and focus for me. Take a breath and let it out while I work on you.”
It’s so tempting to slip a finger inside her, but I won’t. Her pain is so not a turn-on for me. I made this happen for Isabella because she’d told me a while back that she’d always been curious and I knew she needed an outside force to “make her do it.” Naturally, I love the effect of the porn-quality hairless region, and Isabella’s could withstand the scrutiny of the tightest close-up, I muse with a twitch inside my boxers. But the true bonus is the way she feels about it, and once the pain passes, she’ll be left with satiny smooth skin and a sense of pride that she withstood the pain for her Master.
Master twists the lid on the tube as I dissolve into a puddle on the table. He washes his hands again before rolling the stool around to the head of the table, sitting, and running his fingers through my hair. “I’m so proud of you, Isabella. You did a phenomenal job holding yourself together.”
“I didn’t hold myself together, Master. You held me together.”
He chuckles and compromises. “Okay, we held you together together.”
I twist my neck so I can look at him, because now I can. He’s right here, touching me, lulling me into submission, just like always. I prop my chin up on my hands and meet his eyes. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”
“No. Why don’t you tell me?” His thumb draws random patterns on my cheek as he waits for my response.
“Why don’t I show you instead, Master?” I know I’m being brazen, but when my gaze shifts to his lap, I know he’s appreciative of my offer. His eyes do that thing where I know he’s measuring and calculating and deciding what’s best for me. It warms me all over and inflames my desire for him.
“Please?” I beg, sweetening the pot and licking my lips for good measure.
Without further ado, he kicks the stool away and unzips in one smooth motion, freeing his cock and settling himself inside my mouth with a long, drawn-out, “Ahhhhhhhhhh.”
As he fills my mouth and my soul with his need, my sweet Master continues to run his fingers lovingly through my hair, never rushing me, never forcing himself upon me, just taking what I desire to give, which is exactly everything. I relish the familiar weight and the predictable pleasure I’m able to draw from him. He’s an easy mark tonight and I wonder how long he’s gone without relief. Within minutes, Master is grunting and contracting and releasing into my mouth.
“Thank you, my sweet princess,” he says, tidying himself and helping me down from the table, retying my robe and gathering our belongings. “Are you very sore?”
“Yes, I am very sore,” I admit. “But very, very happy.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll go easy on you tonight.”
“Master, no offense, but I think that ship may have sailed.”
He chuckles deep into his chest and answers, “Have you been gone so long you’ve forgotten? I’ve got a whole fleet at my disposal, baby.”