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Questions burn in my mind. It sounds like he killed someone before. How many times? Where has he been stationed? Afghanistan? Iraq? Is that where he picked up all that toughness?
But if he can’t be mine, I don’t want to know any more. It’s already going to kill me to lose him.
“My box of toys is on the coffee table. Look inside and see if anything in there strikes your fancy. Then bring whatever toys you want back to me, along with one of the pillows from the couch.”
Although I’m still steaming with indignation, I stand and go to do as he ordered. I’ll take his orders as long as he gives them, because that’s all I’ll have to remember later when he sends me away. Though I don’t understand why he’s willing to do any kind of scene with me if he doesn’t want a slave.
As far as a dominant’s box of toys go, Charlie’s is ridiculously small. Josh had a footlocker in his bedroom loaded with equipment, plus more that he hung inside the closet. Everything Charlie has fits in what looks to be an old boot box. I open the lid and start sorting through his toys. Several brand-new hanks of rope. I’m cool with that. A modest-sized butt plug, still in the unopened package. A set of silver nipple clamps connected by a delicate chain. It’s pretty.
But it doesn’t match the heavy, thick leather collar and cuffs he gave me earlier.
A Hitachi wand, also still in its package. Hard, forced orgasms are also up my alley, especially if he has me tied to his bed.
That’s it. It seems incomplete, as if he just borrowed someone else’s equipment. It’s generic, nothing that speaks to the kind of Master he is. Not a single paddle or crop, though those wouldn’t fit in the box. He doesn’t have one hanging in the closet—I would’ve noticed when I searched last night.
How is he going to punish me, then? I enjoy the kneeling and service, the polite respect, but I need sensual pain too. I can orgasm without punishment, sure, but it won’t be enough for long. My hardest, most intense orgasms only come when my partner punishes me at the same time.
I thought he could give me both domination and punishment. That’s part of what attracted me to him so strongly. I thought he’d be able to give me everything I need while still treasuring my submission.
If he can’t hurt me…
Stomach churning, I return to the table with only a pillow. He points at the floor without looking at me. This kind of ritual play I’m imminently comfortable with. I place the pillow beside his chair and drop to my knees.
He pulls my plate over to him and cuts the rest of my filet mignon into delicate bites. “I thought you’d be hungry after taking Sheba for a walk. She’d drag you all the way to Springfield if you let her.”
I’ve never had a Master who wants to hold a normal, everyday sort of conversation with me while I wait on his pleasure at his feet. “I was.”
Like I’m a dog begging scraps from the table, he uses his own fork to place a bite into my mouth.
And damn it all to hell, I open my mouth and eat from his hand.
“You like this.” He watches me intently. “You like to be on your knees. Serving. Obeying.”
“Yes.” Maybe it’s petty of me, but I don’t sayMaster, even though every bone in my body insists I obey his every wish. A small rebellion.
“I didn’t say I don’t want you, Ranay.” He speaks softly, lifting another bite to my lips. “I said I don’t want a full-time slave. If you enjoy the trappings of this kind of play, then we can do that too, though I have to admit I’ve never been into the slave-on-her-knees scene.”
My palms turn clammy. He doesn’t like this kind of play either? Josh had a lot of faults, but he took great pride in training me to be a slave on display. He often took me to the clubs to show me off. I’m never more graceful and self-assured than when I’m stripped naked, collared and kneeling at my Master’s feet, all my senses locked on him to anticipate his tiniest need. My faults don’t matter then, as long as I please him.
Without a single paddle.
I could live without the kneeling and posturing, but I’ve come too far and fought too hard to end up with a Master who can’t even spank me. I want to be his slave, yes, but I need a Master who will relish punishing me as much as he wants to fuck me. I want to be owned, but completely and fully satisfied at the same time. Especially in the bedroom, and for me, that means a Master with a heavy hand.
I take my time chewing to make sure I don’t choke when I swallow, though my stomach rebels. My voice doesn’t break when I finally speak. “Then you really don’t want me.”And as much as it kills me to admit it, maybe he’s not right for me either.
It sucks. I have to will my stomach to hold on to the food he gave me. This might be the only time we play, and I want everything he’ll give me.
“I want you,” he whispers, giving me another bite. I want to refuse, I do, but the way his dark eyes glimmer in the candlelight, urging me to comply, I can’t. “But it breaks my heart to think about you sitting here in my house all alone, dying inside while waiting for me to come home. For the rest, I’m willing to learn your preferences.”
“But…” I can’t even begin to fathom a Master who’s willing to change his normal play to adjust to the slave. That goes against everything I know.
“There are only two things I require from you while we’re together. You have to be willing and able to give me your safeword, and you can’t be my 24/7 slave. I won’t be able to do my job if I’m afraid you’re pining your life away waiting for me.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” His voice is rough. Not with violence this time, but the sexual threat of the Master. “You can because I say you will.”
My head aches and I slump on my knees, unable to keep up the appearance of perfect posture and graceful composure. I know the truth of what I can and can’t do. “And if I don’t?”
