Beg Me (14 page)

I was nude.

So was he.

My fingertips ran over his abs and pecs, caressed him, turned his head this way and that as if I were inspecting a horse.

As a matter of fact, I was armed with a riding crop.

And so help me, I gave in to exploiting the power Oliver had handed me.

“Come to me,” I ordered.

He took a step.

“Get down on your knees.”

And he did.

“You want this?” I whispered. “You want to lick my pussy?”

“Y-yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want to lick your pussy.”

“Beg me,” I ordered.

“Please?” he pleaded. “Please let me…”

I parted my legs and rested my foot on him—just as if I were a conquering heroine stepping onto a rock. My dusty bare foot plopped down on his shoulder, and this humiliating contact made his cock stiffen even more. Jeez, it was incredible. He shuffled on his knees closer to me, which must have hurt on the cold cement of the basement, and then he burrowed his head between my legs. I felt his tongue licking me like a dog.

At one point his left hand gripped my leg lightly to steady himself, and remembering what Oliver had taught me, I flicked the crop down on the rise of his buttocks.
Zing.
Lightly. Just enough. There was an accuracy and precision to giving blows that I must learn, Oliver said. If I learned how a dom thinks, how a dom performs, I’d gain insight into how best to please him—and maybe how best to keep myself safe. Maybe I’d know when they were about to go too far or take liberties that they shouldn’t.

“How dare you touch me?”

“I’m—I’m sorry!”

His cock was so red it looked like he was about to burst.

“I should make you bleed for that,” I heard myself say, and it didn’t sound real, the words from a stranger.

“Y-yes.”

“Are you going to do a better job?”

“Please…”

He brought his mouth back, and I felt his tongue flicking away, working me with feverish, desperate energy. My knees began to buckle. I grabbed his neck and squeezed as much of the skin in my fist as I could, and that excited him further, the soft strokes on my clit driving me mad and the lightness in my thighs overpowering me, making me stagger. I swooned, my weight on his head and shoulder. And then I felt his hot, rapid breath on my pubic mound, and I let out a tortured moan. When I pushed his face back and he sat on his calves, I saw him in torment, his cock a bulbous crimson, the boy holding on to his control by a thread.

“Don’t you dare come!” I ordered. “Don’t you dare!”

I whipped the riding crop down on his thigh. It made an angry red bar on his brown skin.

“You don’t come ’til I say!” I barked.

“I won’t! I won’t!”

Denial. Arousing him until he couldn’t stand it anymore, increasing the intensity of his climax.

I slammed down the crop on his opposite thigh. He stifled a groan of pain, and now he had two matching red welts. I got up to fetch another prop from a foldout metal table.

“You will fuck me and come when I give you permission,” I said, “and if you come one second before, I will cut your balls off, so help me.”

“Y-yes.”

“Now go lie down on that rug.”

He did. I mounted him backward, facing away from him. I felt the involuntary stiffening of his rod, and I was having my own struggle with control. An impulse seized me, and I brought the crop down on his calf. He started and yelped with pain, and it made him push into me a little more, but still he didn’t climax. I hit the other calf. He bucked inside me again. I started a selfish rhythm for my own pleasure, and I heard him mewl like a child under me, no masculinity in it at all, and I heard myself laughing, actually laughing at him. It was the cruelest thing I’d ever done in bed to anyone.

And yet this was what he wanted, I could tell. It was one thing to get your ego satisfied by stimulating your partner, but this…! Not just power, but to use your imagination in flexing that power, bringing all your creativity to bear.

There was an incredible intimacy to it, knowing he was in my hands.

I played with my clit to help my orgasm and rode his pole slowly, still fearing he might break. When I slid off him, panting and my head swimming, he was still hard, a bead of semen glistening on the head of his dick.

I don’t know what drove me to it. At once I resented this miracle of restraint, even though I knew it wasn’t defiance, that he was doing what I’d ordered him to do, and his obedience actually made me want to push the boundaries even more. How far would he trust me? That was it, wasn’t it? The intimacy of the bond could be even more intense, just like the actual sex.

I picked up the straight razor.

“Lift your knees up,” I said.

He swallowed hard. His cock twitched again. He was looking
forward
to it, to whatever I had in mind.

Complete trust.

There’s this theory that the submissive is actually in control because he or she might say stop, and if he stops being aroused, that’s it. Oliver had told me things weren’t as clear cut as that. After all, that idea is predicated on the notion that you discuss a scene first and negotiate all the limits. But the princes of the sarcophacan temple didn’t talk through their “scenes,” and they didn’t have safety words. They believed that once the sub gives blanket consent, the dom runs the show.

This was my show, my game. I loved it.

I caressed the razor edge ever so slightly above the sac of his balls, and I enjoyed his shivers. He couldn’t bring himself to tell me to stop, never mind any safe words.

There were no safe words.

“What are you looking at?” I asked, letting the blade hover.

“Your tits,” he answered. I believed him. Naked in front of him except for the domino mask, my fingertips touching him inside his thigh.

“When you feel it, you can let go,” I said.

And then my fingertips caressed his balls tenderly, and he shivered again, his knees up like a girl, panting hard, his face glowing with sweat.

I brought the blade down with savage speed just below his ball sac and cut him. Not deep. A razor-thin line, no worse than a paper cut but in the most vulnerable skin, and he let out an anguished roar. “Aaaahggghhhhhh!” I watched bullets of spunk fly past his head and then a stream of white cum fly out over his chest. He shut his eyes tight as if he were holding back a sob. Another stream. I experienced my own small orgasm, so powerfully turned on by the vision of him like this, and as he passed the crest, I staggered up and found the K-Y.

I put aside the razor. I squeezed a couple of drops of the jelly onto my fingers, and I jerked him until he was hard again, another finger tapping the fresh cut, making it burn. As my fist flashed up and down his slick penis, he let out a feminine keen, and I knew the tantalizing pain and burn of my finger under his balls, pressing on the cut. This time I made him come all over my breasts.

When the boy had cleaned up and had gone, I stood pensively in the upstairs shower, letting the water wash over me, thinking again about Simon’s warnings. As I stepped out, dripping and reaching for a towel, Oliver walked in casually, as if we were a married couple or something, and leaned against the tile of the bathroom wall.

“I’d say you’ve graduated with honors. You’re ready for them.”

I stood naked for a moment, still dripping, peeling off my shower cap. “If you like what you see, then—”

“No,” he said.

I didn’t understand. He wanted me. It was obvious. He had been inside me during my “training.” Didn’t he enjoy it? Was it the kink that was the issue? He needed now to whip me each time or to have me humiliate him like the boy? I remembered he had kissed and petted me in the back room of the shop before we started all this.

Maybe it was fear of a different kind of intimacy. Once he requested what he needed, I would be in his head, understand him, know him.

I’ve never understood that mind-set. My lovers have always said I was open and free. I would say I was natural. Identifying your tastes doesn’t make you vulnerable, it only makes you human. It’s when I’m out of bed that I have problems, coming to grips with the attitudes and BS I face over having more than one lover or occasionally being with a girl.

“Come here,” I whispered.

And still he held back.

I glided up to him and linked my arms around his neck. “Tell me. What do you need?”

“I’m good,” he said, holding his ground but not moving to take me in his arms.

“Oliver, I like you.”

“I like you too, Teresa. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

It was like a curtain of darkness fell down over his face, his mouth grimacing, eyes looking everywhere but at me. “If we do a scene,” he said, slipping into the lingo, “I can come. But if you want straight again, then…” He threw up his hands. “There, okay? Satisfied?”

“What do you need?” I said, my voice soft and low, comforting. I kissed him reassuringly. “We can play whatever way you—”

“No!”
he said, gently pushing me away. “You think I like being like this?”

I was stunned. “Nobody’s judging you! If this is you, then okay, we’ll—”

“It’s not me!” he thundered. “It didn’t
used
to be me.”

He was embarrassed. He was ashamed. And I was flabbergasted at first. Then I realized I had been right. His core self-image was threatened every time genuine pleasure or tenderness was on the horizon. Fucking someone,
doing
someone—he could handle that. He
did
them. He
fucked
them. It was masculine in his head. He had relegated orgasm to just biology, barely feeling it in vanilla sex.

But when he paddled me or humiliated me, he came alive. Release and the great weight lifted, and then he was back in control. Except for the guilt over the role-play. I would have asked him if he was Catholic if I didn’t think he’d get offended.

I know, I know—there are thousands and thousands of people out there who don’t think twice about this shit when they practice BDSM. I had grown to like it myself. And what the hell is
normal
anyway?

But doing it wasn’t his problem. It was how he thought about it.

What haunted him was what also troubled me: the idea that you had to keep upping the ante, taking things over the edge.

“Oh, Oliver,” I whispered. I kissed him once, and then I walked out to his guest bedroom.

I had found Oliver as my first link to infiltrating the group, and while it had worked out better than I expected, I had to wonder now what the next step was. After all, he had dropped out. It wasn’t like he could bring me by to make friends, could he? Turns out it was something close to that.

“Isaac expects me to
compensate
him,” he said tartly, “for my leaving. He’s started to get impatient because it’s been months and I haven’t brought him anyone worthwhile.”

“Oh, oh,” I said. “Let me get this straight. So you were thinking about ‘bringing’ me to him even when we were flirting in your store?”

“No!” he protested quickly. “You’re not listening. I said he’s getting impatient. It’s been months. I couldn’t do that to a woman, you know what I’m saying? Not after I know people are just
gone,
like your friend Anna. And Kelly.”

“So I’m a rather brilliant piece of good luck for you, aren’t I?” I asked suspiciously.

“Teresa,” he tried again. “You came to me, remember? You want a way in—this is it. Like I said, from Isaac’s perspective, no, it’s not lucky. He’ll say, ‘About time, man.’ You’ll be
tribute.
”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “We pull this off, I won’t see you again for weeks. I can’t contact you. I don’t have their full trust anymore, so if we hook up they might think I got you in there to spy for
me.
I bring them you and then forget all about you, Isaac will accept that. He’ll think, Okay, Oliver’s cool. He wants out, but he can’t be too pissed off about whatever we’re doing if he gives us a fresh sub. So best we keep our distance from each other for a while. And, hey, if you end up liking it there…”

“I have a life to come back to,” I said. “Plus I’m a foreign national, remember? It’s not like I can stay.”

“They find ways around that for the right devotees.” He stepped forward and gently touched my hair. “You just be careful.” It was the most sincere expression of feeling he’d given me.