We Were One Once Book 1 (15 page)

In front of my bedroom
door, she puts her hand on my chest to pause me. Leaning in with
her lower body pressed to me, her eyes are nearly black under her
lashes. “You mean to sell me.” It’s not a question. It’s almost a
challenge. There’s no tremble to her deep voice.

I pull her face towards mine
with a finger under her chin and kiss her gently. “No. I mean to
keep
you
for
myself.” I push open the heavy wooden door, the detailed carving a
testament to an artisan long since gone. It was a trophy from a
trip to India from a grandfather too far removed to remember how
many greats to add. She walks into my room without any hesitation,
smiling at the luxury and comfort within.

I watch as she moves about,
running her hand over the silks, brocades, velvets. It’s an opulent
room of riches, warm even on the coldest of days from the heaviness
of the fabric used everywhere. The walls have been thickened too;
I’ve made sure no sound can escape from here.

I allow the door to close
loudly behind me, but she doesn’t jump. She does turn, though, to
stand facing me in the center of the room. Without a word, she
slowly removes her clothes, letting them fall to the floor at her
feet. When completely naked, she puts her hands on her hips,
jutting out their boniness for me to admire, pushing her small tits
back but still up. It’s a runway pose that puts all her beauty on
full display.

I admire her lack of fear,
her boldness. For now anyway, it’s refreshing. I’m used to dealing
with a sniveling, begging girl at this point. Grace is full of
surprises. She’s kept me on my toes since I first saw
her.

It’s dawning on me now just
how much Grace might be used to rougher play already, that she’s
not like the girls that have never tasted anything but vanilla for
a sexual flavor. Undoing all that’s been done to her before,
undoing her mindset of what she should or shouldn’t do, may take a
bit more finessing with her added experience. Nothing pisses me off
more than a submissive trying to top from the bottom.

“Come here.” She moves
towards me with her cat walk. I’m only sorry that we aren’t farther
apart; I had only a moment to bounce my eyes between her legs and
breasts. Her skin is a dewy softness in the subdued lighting.
“Undress me.”

She doesn’t hesitate,
running her tongue up the opening along my neck to my ear as her
fingers work down the buttons of my shirt. She pulls gently at the
belt and pants opening, questioning with her eyes about the belt. I
lift my smile in response and shake my head. No, I won’t be using a
belt on her. I can’t tell if she pouts at this news; her lips go to
my chest to hide her reaction too quickly.

I’ve been with pre-trained
submissives before. I’ve checked out a few clubs with Cary in the
area, always with mixed feelings. Although I can appreciate an
already eager and primed product, I usually find that the training
is too sloppy, haphazard. The girl believes she still has some
control. Well, to be fair, in those clubs, that’s true. Rules of
conduct all apply in those organizations, even in their so called
‘no limits’ rooms.

It’s why I started my
business—supply meeting demand—to deliver a trained product to the
exact specifications of my friends and associates. My girls have no
delusions of any control. I’m quite proud, boastful even in the
right circles, of the fact that I’ve never had a product try to run
after a certain level of my training. The girls all succumb to
their innately submissive natures. My training brings out the very
best in them. The girls understand and embrace their destinies…in
time anyway.

I’m not evil, well, sort of
in the eyes of those too prudish to admit the truth. Our culture is
too quick to forget its past. In less than three generations ago,
the women running around trying to rule the world today would have
legally been treated as no more than chattel. I choose to ignore
the convention of today’s mores and laws. I adhere to a time long
gone. It’s almost nostalgic really—a romance between a Master and
his property in a time forgotten. I smile at my own musings as I
let Grace continue her tongue’s journey down my body.

All my girls resign
themselves to their fate quickly, not easily for some, but always
quickly. Even for the most vanilla of my products, they learn to
welcome any attention, cruel or tender, and yield to their own need
to be dominated and used for pleasure. The girl does receive
pleasure too. I’m not a monster. When she’s good and trained, she
learns that it can come in the form of whips and chains, not hearts
and flowers.

It’s a simple matter of
selection. I take my time watching and learning about a girl before
deciding that she’ll be right for a particular client’s needs. I
suppose I knew all along that Grace would be for me. I wanted her
for myself from the beginning, even as I toyed with the idea of
selling her.

Grace is already on her
knees, happily putting her mouth to good use. Her tongue trails up,
down, and all around my stiff dick. While her lips press and
squeeze, her fingers expertly rub up and down my length, pulling
slightly on my balls. I could lose myself easily in the feeling,
but tonight is about something much more interesting to
me.

I grab a fistful of her
glorious hair again, shoving her face deep against me. She’s a
remarkable girl, able to take all of me without any gagging. She
even drops her hands to her sides, offering her mouth completely,
staying relaxed. She’s well-trained, but this only makes me
scrutinize her more. Yanking her face away from me, her mouth stays
wide open. I hold her in place, bending her back further. Her arms
remain at her sides. Her tongue whips out to lick her lips; her
chin is wet with moisture. Her eyes are trained on mine, but
seductive, not afraid.

“You do that very well.”
Her lips only curl in the slightest smile. “But you didn’t have my
permission.” I run my free hand down her cheek, bending to take one
nipple between my fingers. I twist it painfully, and her eyes only
close for a second, her face remaining still. She doesn’t react
with more than a small sigh when I squeeze harder. Interesting. Her
nipples were sensitive to every touch earlier. Now, she’s
ice.

“You didn’t have my
permission to undress either.” She turns her pretty lips into a
pretty pout and starts to speak, still with hardly any reaction to
the obvious pain I’m causing her. A slight increase in breathing, a
small flush to her cheeks—that’s all I get.

“And you don’t have
permission to speak.” She’s quick to pop her mouth closed, same
wicked grin playing across her lips. “Face down, on the floor.” I
release her hair gently. She moves to the floor, a panther
stretching out, not slowly, but her muscles move like oil under her
skin, flexing and relaxing. Her ass is last to lower—two perfectly
taut spheres with smooth, creamy skin. I have to stop a laugh at
the thought of bouncing a quarter off her. Maybe later.

“You’ve obviously had a
certain level of training before, Grace.” She only nods against the
rug. “I hope for your sake, sweetheart, that it doesn’t interfere
with my plans for you.” I walk over to a large burled armoire, an
antique piece that has stood in this room since the house was
built. Like so much of what is here, I have conformed it to my own
tastes. Inside the double doors are my favorite toys, my tools of
the trade—whips, chains, cuffs, crops, canes, plugs, ropes—all
neatly organized and waiting for me.

I select a short leather
whip, one of my favorites. I’ve had to replace it several times
from overuse but always come back to the precision of this style.
The size is perfect for my room, almost for any room in this house,
and the leather is supple in my hand. I’m not sure the girls have
always appreciated the quality of the leather, but I certainly
have.

The single shortened tail
can still produce a good sound, but it’s the closeness that I like.
I can be near enough to smell the fear and pain. I can still get a
good range of motion, a strong crack on flesh, but without the need
to be further away like the whips I use in the cave.

Grace is beautiful on the
floor, arms stretched over her head, relaxed against the rug. Her
hair covers her face, fanning over her back. All of her is toned
but delicate, strong but yielding. Normally, I would have the girl
shackled for a first whipping, but I’m too tempted to see how Grace
reacts on her own.

I push her hair to the side
with the whip. Grace wiggles at the feather touch but remains
silent. She knows what’s coming but doesn’t tense at all, only
relaxes more. I raise the whip, an extension of my arm. It’s a
motion that is second nature to me. The whoosh is small but adds an
electrifying sound to the air as the leather comes down across her
back. One thin river of red appears in an oasis of creamy skin.
Only one small gasp escapes from Grace.

Without delays, I bring the
whip up and down many more times. A multi-lined V forms on her
back—lines that stretch onto her perfect ass, up her shoulders.
Still only small cries, gasps, are all I get for my artistry. Her
ass rises, back arches, muscles tense for only a moment, before she
quickly relaxes back into place for the next strike. She’s a
perfect whipping doll.

“Roll over.” She turns her
body, sinewy, a snake on my rug now, until she’s lying exactly the
same—relaxed, arms raised, legs straight in front of me.
Remarkably, there’s not a single tear on her cheeks, not a shadow
of fear in her eyes. She smiles serenely at me even.

I smile back, narrowing my
eyes and studying her for a moment. Her breathing is quick but
already slowing. I know the rug has to be adding to the sting on
her back, but she shows no signs of discomfort. I move the whip,
and her eyes follow it but still with no look of fear to them.
Perhaps she’s never been whipped on her front? Maybe she has no
idea of the level of pain that can be brought in this
position?

“Keep very still for this,
Grace.” She nods. “I wouldn’t want to damage your pretty face.” She
smiles more at this. “Have you been whipped like this before?” She
nods again. Hmm.

I bring the whip up
dramatically, wanting to make the first strike the hardest. Her
only reaction is to close her eyes just as the whip lands across
her stomach and breast. Her small cry is lost against her upper
arm. Her hands clasp and clench, her knees bend only slightly, but
she remains still otherwise.

With each successive whoosh
and crack, her cries get a little longer, a little louder, until a
moan stretches from her lips. It’s intoxicating to hear her, to
watch her. I feel light and almost dizzy when I’m finished. I’ve
held my breath, not wanting to miss the slightest sound from her.
Her sweet spicy scent fills the room. Not once did she cry out
loudly or beg me to stop. She never showed fear, never smelled like
fear, only arousal and yearning. Her legs rubbed together after the
first welt.

I’m breathing as hard as
she is. My blood pumps to my cock as I drop the whip. Her front is
a crisscross of lines. I licked the whip down her legs, across her
stomach, concentrated on her tits. She’s a mess of red and cream,
deeper welts begging to be kissed. “Get up. On the bed.” I watch
her move slowly—a cross between the snake and cat, sinewy and
springy.

Her eyes are bright, but
there’s still only a trace of tears on her face. She wobbles a
little but stands confident. Before she can move to the bed, I grab
her arms and smash her against me. I have to taste her mouth; I
have to feel her skin. Her tongue fights against mine, forcing its
way as much as mine does, not yielding, not submissive. She’s
hungry and needing. Her skin almost burns mine, our sweat
mingling.

I pull away but keep her
close. Her eyes are fevered, her breath is panting; so is mine. I
want her so much. I’ve never felt this before. Confusion and lust.
I am usually so in control. Her show of strength against the pain,
her will bent to perfect submission for each blow—it’s more than I
expected. It’s what I’ve wanted from her.

I’ve had lesser women pass
out on me after only a few stripes. Their own fear and emotions
escalate the pain from every touch to an unbearable level, causing
them to hyperventilate and lose consciousness before I get to
anything fun. But no girl has ever taken so much so quickly, and
with only the slightest hint at her level of pain.

I whisper against her,
“Don’t you feel anything?” I feel her cheek rise in a smile as she
presses herself against me more, not to ease the pain but to
embrace it. Her skin is on fire; our sweat has to be increasing the
sting of the deeper welts. She glides our bodies together,
gasping.

“I feel everything. You are
very skilled, Simon.”

I yank her away. Is she
fucking with me? Playing her little game of bravado? No, her smile
is serene. Her look is unmistakably one of lust and
need.