Friday, October 24, 2014

Alone with the Master

(Book Cover Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

Part Two from Carly on Her Knees

Continuing Carly's adventures in Paris. First it was the dungeon scene, and now she's alone with a new dominant master, ready to be his slave...

A single, quivering light burned through the darkness of Haverleigh’s hotel room. Just enough for virtual strangers coupling in the dark, where the mystery and impulse of their meeting could be sustained. No jarring lights, no conversation to burst the erotic mood that swam around them.

    Haverleigh sat back in an easy chair and observed his prize while she stood waiting in the shadows. “Take off your clothes for me, Carly. Start with the boots, then the jeans.”

    “May I sit down?” she asked.

    “No. I want you to stand so I can see you,” he replied, in a tone that implied she either obey the order or leave. “The boots and jeans,” he said again.

    She began—the biting lip, the unseen blush and an awkward dance to pull off the thigh-high boots with nothing to help her keep her balance. Each article tossed in a heap beside her was a triumph of will. The boots and jeans removed, she was left with the sweater and hat, waiting for instructions.

    “Let me see your tits,” he said.

    She lifted her sweater above her chest and without his asking pulled it over her head in a single movement.

    “My, my, you girls are more eager every year.” She could see the glint of his white teeth as he spoke; little else was visible in the dark but layers of breathing shadows. She wanted to rub herself, she was that hot. Play with her nipples. Stuff fingers in her pussy. Eager, yes she was eager, despite all the reasons she might have to fear the man. And now his haughty remark only amplified feelings of shame that welled up inside her and urged her to run. What was she doing here? What kind of slut had she become to turn herself into Byron Haverleigh’s newest bauble? What dark forces had he unleashed that drove her into this perilous place? Strangely enough, her lover Tyler was not even a passing thought.

    “On your knees,” he said before she could act on her profound disgrace. Without thinking, she dropped down and crawled toward him until she was at his parted thighs. “You want to suck so bad that you can taste it,” he mocked her while shoving fingers in her mouth. “Is that it? Or do you want something more? You want to be beaten like Sashe, isn’t that right?”

    Still sucking his finger, she looked into his barely visible eyes, wanting, hungering. He could obviously read her mind—so let him read.

    “Yes, beaten. I saw you move against the wall. I saw the craving in your eyes. I know what you want, and if I’m guessing right, you’ve been hearing stories. Rumors abound about me. You think I’m not aware of that? You think I really care? You think that I haven’t been stalked by a dozen women before you? That I don’t know why you want inside my bed?”

    “I don’t think anything like that,” she swore to him.

    “No? Really?” he scowled and grabbed her by the hair. “You lie, girl.”

    “No, sir. I’m driven by a desire to submit.” Though the line might have come straight from her lesbian lover Dana’s playbook, there was no trickery in the remark. It was as natural as rain upon her skin, as common as breathing for a submissive female. Of course Dana was right to assign her to this man—though she would never admit that to her. What Haverleigh meant to her was personal and she was definitely here for herself. Screw Dana’s plans. Carly understood better than ever how much she was hard-wired for submission; how much she relished the terror and fantasy that controlled her now.

    “And the club gave you that desire?”

    “No. My life does that on its own.”

    “Then you’re the real deal. The bonafide subbie. A little slave girl, is that it?”

    “If that’s what you want from me?”

    He laughed, letting go her hair, thrusting Carly back on her heels. “Either you’re very practiced in the jargon, or you’re real. I suppose it’s for me to figure out the truth.”

    She offered him no reply.

    “Well, sub Carly, let’s see just how far you’re willing to go for your desires. There’s a bag in the corner of the room,” he motioned behind him with a nod of his head. “You can’t see it now, but you’ll find it once you head that way. Open the zipper. Take out the quirt on top and bring it to me in your mouth. And do it fast. I hate to be kept waiting.”

    Disappearing into the inky darkness only raised her anxiety another notch. The thrumming in her crotch had turned it raw and wet, the spontaneous orgasms firing off almost made her moan. Still, she kept to the task, finding the leather bag open, not closed and the quirt as he said, sticking out of the top, as if it had been waiting for her to snatch it away.

    “Get going!” he jumped on her impatiently when she moved too slowly. Then she scampered back to him with the quirt in her mouth, the handle dangling from one side, the business end at the other.

    The implement hardly seemed formidable at first glance: the long straight shaft and the delicate fall were a graceful weapon. But it struck with a brutal snap, and as Haverleigh leaned back in his chair and thwacked her flesh—breasts, thighs, belly, wherever the quirt could reach—she took the punishment with hardly a moan—although had he enough light to see by, the pain she suffered would have been evident on her face.

    “Too heavy?”

    “No, sir.”

    “All right then.” His enthusiasm was gathering.

    Rising to his feet, Haverleigh strode to the side of the room and turned on a lamp that bathed the room in a soft, yellow glow.

    “C’mere,” he ordered as he moved to a more open space in the luxurious hotel suite. The gold, the glimmer, the schmaltzy glitz of the room was sickening to her eyes; all that luster wasted on her simpler sense of taste. But that was beside the point when the glamour of the man and his wealth was forgotten amid the desire for pain that had suddenly risen up with a vengeance in her hungering body.

    She arrived at his feet and waited for his next comment. “Ass up, subbie!” he ordered.

    Carly dropped her head and shoulders to the floor raising her ass high and wide. The sharp blows that followed nicked her skin, caught meanly against her pussy when they struck the center of her sex, and burned her ass cheeks when they hit soft pliant flesh. Lost. She was lost, sensation building on sensation, each new pain absorbed into her body and setting off a new grinding, pleasurable spasm.

    The cadence went on for several minutes until Carly was overcome and collapsed to her side.

    “Get up!” he barked

    She rose back to position, trembling and fearful, though her arousal seemed to soar even further.

    “That was a stupid thing to do, subbie,” Haverleigh snapped, as he peeled off another dozen cuts in fast succession. “I give you pleasure, but maybe it’s punishment you want.”

    “No, sir, no! I’m so sorry, please.”

    “You can beg, girl, but I’ll do exactly what I want. You clear on that?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    He glared down at her quivering body and her red-streaked ass, then abruptly reached down and pulled her up by the hair.

    “Your cunt as good as your ass for taking pain?”

    She stared at him blankly, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

    “Well, let’s see. In the next room. On the bed.”


Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved. May not be used without permission

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