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“Try again,” he sternly asked.
“I… uh…” The fact was, Preston hadn’t come to my apartment for sex in almost a week. He hadn’t teased me to orgasm in all that time—in fact, he’d teased me twice and left me hanging. It had been all I could do to keep from breaking his first rule of submission … don’t come without permission. But dare I tell him all that?
He thwacked me again, and kept on cutting me with the dreadful bamboo, while coaxing, “An answer, Skye.”
“I… uh…” I was trying to think while the pain in my ass was reaching miserable proportions. “Ouch… uh… sir… I am so damned horny…”
“So damned horny, what?” he finally stopped hitting me.
“I can’t stand myself… you’ve got my nerves, m-my body all tied in knots, sir…”
“So this is my fault?”
“NO, Sir! I mean… I don’t do well with denial… I’m not very good at long term suffering.”
“Well, then, maybe you need a little more training in suffering. How about two weeks at the North Street house?”
I winced in anguish at that thought.
“It will be a sacrifice on my part, but if they can train you to contain yourself with some grace instead of going sideways on me, it would be worth it.”
“Please, sir, I really don’t think that would be necessary.”
“Oh, you’re making the decisions?”
“NO, sir!”
He paced the room, walking around me, no doubt deep in thought, or being silent just to make me suffer more. The sum of his thoughts was more gruesome a result than I could imagine. “Raise your ass and spread your knees wide.”
The position exposed my pubic mound and anal cleft to the extremes, leaving me vulnerable and especially scared. Preston, for his part, lived up to the promise inherent in his last order. With a delivery sure to shock every tattered nerve in my system, he whacked my ass, the cleft, my labia, pussy and every other tender inch of my sex. I gasped aloud because I couldn’t help it. Of all the trials I’d been through with him, this seemed like the worst. Or then, maybe the present moment is always the worst… because time makes the memories of previous punishment fade or turn into an exhilarating, if not faulty, memory. Truth is always very subjective, but worse or not, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but I didn’t.
When he finally stopped hitting me, the awful ache lingered on.
“You’re going to feel this for sometime, Skye. My intention. I hope it will be a useful reminder. Now get up and fix this lousy presentation into something I can present to Ellington. If you have to work all night to get it done, so be it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said as I gingerly rose to my feet. I was a little wobbly, and yes, I winced with every move.
Later in the company bathroom, I wrenched and twisted my body around until I managed to get a quick peek at my wounds, discovering a dozen red welts where the baton had almost broken the skin and there were bruises rising up from underneath. It was three days before the ache in my behind finally disappeared. The old admonishment, you’ll be blistered so hard you won’t sit for a week… is an extreme threat. That much punishment would be genuinely vile. But it certainly seemed that I was half way there that day.
I waited another week before I got any relief. Preston wasn’t about to let me win this battle. That week was rough, but I did much better containing my nervous frustration. I didn’t even hate him. I never understood how this strange, fantastic dynamic we shared turned abuse into a powerful aphrodisiac. But by then, I quit trying to figure it out.
For awhile, after the incident of punishment in his office, Preston came to my apartment regularly at night—although on no particular schedule. As he’d been doing for months already, scenes in bedroom were often urgent quickies, during which I often wouldn’t get off. Increasingly, however, they became more purely intimate moments when I would mellow out in the pleasure Preston offered with a genuine interest in my satisfaction. Then, almost without my realizing, his sexual focus moved from my taking ass to my cunt… from voyeuring my masturbations, to tender, sensuous trysts, making love.
He became more than a master… exchanging cruelty for breathtaking kisses. His skin met mine explosively, and we fucked wildly, with savage abandon. Then later it was obvious to me that we were lovers, wandering about the bed in the dark, silently speaking with our hands, our tongues and tentative gestures of love. I say tentative because we seemed so unsure of the territory we explored.
Sometimes I wanted to push him away because the intimacy created such an awkward tension between us. I think he felt that way, too—sometimes it was days before he came to me again. Yet, when he finally returned, the passion would be as fresh as it had been that first time.
After one very intimate lovemaking, after a lengthy silence, which was common during our late night rendezvous—I can remember our not exchanging more than four words on one occasion—Preston was getting dressed while I sat on the bed contently naked, watching him. He stared back at me and startled me with a surprising announcement, “I want to move you into the spare room in my apartment.” More surprisingly, I hardly flinched when he made his declaration. “It’s a small space, but all you’ll need. My demands on you increase from this point on and I want you readily available.”
Though I’d lost the independence of my lonely Lloyd & Lockhart cubicle, I still had my apartment to cling to. Now I’d lose this too, if he had his way. My repertoire of ready responses rushed forward as my first defensive thought silently screamed that I cut him off right there. Game over! You’ve gone too far! But that was the old Skye.
My move into his executive penthouse went so smoothly that I hardly knew what happened to me—or most of my belongings; I had little say about what traveled with me to my new home or how it was situated. When I finally arrived the servant’s
quarters off the kitchen, I found my bed, my Peruvian comforter, my art scattered about the floor and walls, a dresser, the lively colors I was accustomed to and my clothes stuffed into the small closet. My overstuffed reading chair and lamp were squeezed into one corner, while a washstand and toilet were in the opposite corner behind an Oriental screen. The scene was as wild and eclectic as what I would have designed on my own, which suggested that Preston apparently approved of, or at least respected my personal tastes—as long as they were confined to my room.
The rest of Preston’s penthouse was decorated in subtle tones of tan, and brown and silver, with an occasional splash of deep red, gold or blue. There was no subtlety in the contrasts between us, not in our taste in decorating, nor in our style of emotional expression, nor in our personal temperaments.
Although I took the change with little fuss, once I finally got settled in Preston’s servant’s quarters, a slow invading panic began eroding what peace I’d once had regarding my relationship with my master. It started quietly the day I moved in, as I became not just his live-in mistress, but his personal maid.
